Whoo-hoo! I finally get to post a new chapter!

Goodness gracious, I have totally felt like a guinea pig for Murphy's Law lately. So, my boss runs two departments for the company I work for, and a few months ago one of two full-time employees for the second department quit so he could go overseas and court his girlfriend for 3 months! Romantic, I know. So, that meant my boss tapped me to cover the shifts necessary to keep the other department going on top of my owns shifts. It wasn't too bad, I was able to keep writing and all. Then, wait for it, the second full-time employee committed a huge snafu and quit before they could be fired. Guess who got tapped to cover those shifts too? Yup, me. Yay for overtime and awesome paychecks, boo for being so exhausted that I could barely change clothes before I fell into bed. Finally, we were able to hire a single new full-timer and get her trained 3 weeks ago. Between her and I, we have the extra shifts covered and I have gotten some rest.

Warnings: this time I am reserving the warnings until the end of the chapter because it will spoil the chapter. Rest assured there are no trigger items within.


Chapter 2:

Meanwhile, back in Iacon…

Bluestreak was so very excited! Six orns ago Optimus Prime had come to visit and brought Uncle Ratchet with him. They had spoken to Bluestreak and his brothers about his upcoming upgrade, which was very exciting! He would become a fourth frame youngling in three metacycles and finally get to start doing grown-up stuff! Prime had asked him what he thought he might like to start studying as his adult specialization and Bluestreak had been ready with his answer. He wanted to be a soldier. Smokey and Prowl had protested fiercely, he was too young to pick such a profession, all he knew of it were the glamorized portions, it would remind him of the abuse of his ex-trine. But Bluestreak was determined; he would have the skills to protect his family, he would. Prime and his brothers managed to negotiate a compromise he could live with, he would be trained as a soldier, but he would also be exposed to as many alternate professions as could be found in the Autobot repertoire until he selected a secondary, non-combat, specialty.

Uncle Ironhide and the twins elected to chat a bit when they heard about the upcoming graduation and were going to begin his basic training immediately. It was why Blue was so excited! The twins had picked him up for the afterzenith, but instead of taking him to his art class they were smuggling him into the Armory's training complex.

Bluestreak giggled. Sideswipe was humming his own mission music and clinging to the walls like a cybertriop, while Sunstreaker had the youngling tucked under his arm like a lob ball and checking around corners like a spy in an old holofilm. Bluestreak giggled again and Sunstreaker shushed him.

The small mobile communicator Bluestreak carried hissed to life. "The carrier hen is heading your way, Tracks accidentally tipped him off. Also, stop skulking around. It's making my suspicion algorithms itch."

Sideswipe pouted and pointedly did not stop. "Aw Red, you know we're just trying to keep you sharp and vigilant!"

There was a snort from the other side of the comm. "Trying to drive me into an early grave more like."

Sunstreaker winked down at Bluestreak then poked the proverbial cyberphant in the aft. "If you hate us so much, why are you helping us?"

Silence.

The twins shared evil grins.

"What was that Red? We couldn't hear you." Sideswipe goaded.

A growl came from the speaker. "Because you know as well as I do what a security risk it is to have civilian younglings on a military base. The sooner they get trained, the better."

The twins rolled their optics. It was a stock answer straight from the security analysis coding, but they let it slide. They themselves had witnessed the loving protectiveness that Red Alert had lavished on the Praxian sparkling. The twins never commented or teased him. Especially not after finding out that they were now Ironhide's wards due to their reassessed legal age as of four orn ago. They had rushed to Ratchet in an outrage, only to be given a decided lack of sympathy, and a stern lecture on guardian protocols and all the ways those would affect their formerly free-range lifestyle.

"Okay, take the corridor to your left and enter the second door on the right." The Security Director instructed.

Two frontliners and a still softly giggling youngling hastened quickly to the location before the pursuing overprotective brother could catch them. They ducked into the indicated storage closet and went completely silent. Even Bluestreak had a servo over his own mouth to stifle the noises of amusement that he simply could not cease making.

They heard heavy pedsteps pound down the hall and stop just past their hideaway. There was a long silence where they dared not even move, then a binary skreel of frustration was heard and the pedsteps moved onward.

The trio quickly exited the closet and ran back the way they came. With Red Alert's help they made it safely all the way to the Armory. Once inside Ironhide locked the door with a Prime-level override code. Most mecha forgot it was part of his purview as chassis-guard to the Prime to possess such a code and should delay Smokescreen at least as long as it would take the Praxian to find the conveniently missing Prime.

Inside the training complex at last, Sunstreaker set Bluestreak down to greet his other friends. It was absolutely adorable to watch the bitty Praxian tackle-hug the tiny minibot and little seekerling. Sunstreaker had to look away before his bad-aft rep was ruined by rumors of sappy smiles. He felt a wave of melancholy from the other side of his bond. ::Sides?::

::Were we ever that carefree Sunny?::

Sunstreaker looked back down at the tiny trio babbling to one another in half sentences as they updated one another on everything that might have happened in the last orn. ::No, we weren't… It's not fair is it.::

Sideswipe leaned his shoulder against his sparktwin. ::It makes me feel horrible to take even a small bit of that away from him, them.::

Sunstreaker looked at him. ::We are NOT Crunch, these are not the pits. We won't need to subject them to what we went through.::

::I'm sorta jealous. I used to dream about being a regular sparkling.:: Sideswipe hesitated. ::This won't mess that up for them will it?::

::I… I don't think so. We're just gonna teach 'em the basics. 'Hide says fourth frames get taught that stuff normally, we're just jumping the throttle a few decacycles.::

Their conversation had only taken a few nanokliks and when they came out of the bond Ironhide was just gathering their three charges together for Gun Safety 101.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ironhide surveyed his little kingdom. As a matter of course he had separated the seekerling from the other sparklings, for while Sunstorm had excellent control suppressing his Sigma gift, he had almost no control when wielding it. So Ironhide placed him in a containment room with the instructions to create a ball of radiation plasma in his servos without melting the combat drones surrounding him. So far the seekerling had melted fourteen drones and created not even a flicker of plasma.

When the fifteenth drone keeled over in a puddle of its own metals Sunstorm threw up his servos in frustration. "Im never gonna do it right! Uncle 'Hide I don't think this is gonna work! The purple mech always told me I was an 'unstopp'ble force of total d'strucshun. I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure it means I can't control myself!" he whined.

Ironhide smirked. "Youngling, Ah've trained dozens of mechlings just lahk yuh, an naught one of 'em thought they could ever do what Ah told'em they could. Made it funney when each an' every one of 'em succeeded."

Sunstorm folded his chubby little arms and affixed the older mech with a skeptical look. "Are you sure?"

"Ah'm sure." Ironhide chuckled. "Nawh start again, an' this time feel yahr power, find its source, an' pull it where ya wont it ta go."

Sunstorm flopped his arms and wings forward. "Fine…"

Ironhide could not help but smile at the petulance. He then turned his attention to the training mats where the twins were teaching Cosmos and Bluestreak the opening stances of Diffusion. Ironhide could tell that Sunstreaker was pulling from his twin's knowledge but it was quite sufficient for the level being taught. The Armory Master made a note that the twins were remarkably good instructors despite their youth and resolved to give them more such opportunities.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Optimus Prime sat back in his very comfy chair in his very important meeting in his very private receiving room with his two very old bosom friends, and pretended that his door chime was not ringing its way out of the wall.

When Ironhide had come to him about arranging combat training early for the Autobots' three bitlets, Prime had been apprehensive. While he knew the seekers were fine with training, and were, in fact, encouraging it, Prowl and Smokescreen were less than enthused. Which is why Ironhide had arranged for Elita and Magnus to visit for an 'important strategy meeting'. That the meeting was taking place in his private quarters and consisted mostly of highgrade consumption and swapping funny stories of their mechs had absolutely no impact on the validity of the meeting.

None.

At all.

Really!

It had absolutely nothing to do with hiding from the one remaining adult Praxian on base. Especially since it had not worked and said angry Praxian was currently outside his door leaning on the entry buzzer in some sadistic form of psychological warfare. Optimus was trying valiantly to ignore it, but Elita and Magnus kept looking at the door giggling.

"Surely you are not afraid of one little doorwinger my Prime?" Magnus jested.

Optimus frowned. "You laugh, but it is not your energon he is after, Dion."

Ultra Magnus and ElitaOne shared a look of significance, and then, before Optimus could stop their plotting, Elita leapt up and opened the door!

Betrayed by his friends, Prime hopped up to put the chair between the half-deranged blue and red winged blur and himself. Only when the blur resolved itself into a mostly coherent Smokescreen did he step back into the circle of furniture Smokescreen's optics locked onto his movements, but the Praxian did not speak as he was too busy regaining control of his heaving chassis vents.

"Smokescreen? Unless it is an emergency, I am afraid that all upper level command issues are being redirected to Blackshot as I am taking a personal day." Optimus stated in vain hope. However, by the glint in Smokescreen's optic, Prime realized he had tried appealing to the propriety of the wrong mech; Smokescreen had none.

"Sorry Prime. But only you will do. Your chassis-guard has my little brother locked up in his training complex and you're gonna help me get him back!"

Optimus Prime, Leader of the Autobots, Herald of Primus, Bearer of Ultimus, the Matrix of Leadership, slumped in defeat.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ironhide strolled behind his tiny lineup of shooters. They had gone over the basics of gun safety until the little mechs could repeat it back word for word, a feat he had accomplished by having the mechlings pretend to teach one another. It was slagging adorable. In fact, Ironhide was seriously considering having the bitlets teach his next batch of recruits, and would have to remember to record that session for posterity. Ironhide had also taken the precaution of modifying the miniature firearms to a setting so low it would barely leave a plasma residue, much less any kind of burn or damage. They were all lined up at their firing stations, the most fearsome little expressions one their faceplates. Ironhide saved a few image captures, and nodded in approval.

He gave the order to commence firing.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Optimus Prime strode down the hall, shoulders back and helm up, the very epitome of regal dignity. His mecha would never know any different… until they looked at the mech behind him.

The Praxian stalking behind Prime looked like an agent of the Unmaker with his chevron tilted forward to show the sharpened tips and wings up and forward at a victorious angle. Occasionally, the Prime attempted to stop and check in with various mecha. When he did, a blue digit would slowly rise behind him in warning, but Prime would usually ignore it. Poke! The digit would unerringly find as tender seam to jab through, making Prime jump or flinch despite bracing for it. The inevitable embarrassment, or repeat pokes, would cause him to swiftly terminate the conversation and move on.

Eventually the door to the Armory Complex loomed large in front of them, but before Optimus could enter his override, the door sprang open. A manic looking Ironhide was brought up short at the sight of his thoroughly cowed Prime, the triumphant diversionary tactician, the drunkenly giggling ElitaOne, and the super stoic but-desperately-desiring-to-laugh Magnus.

Ironhide blinked. "Ah don't wanna know. Prime! Get yer aft in with the littles an' show 'em that small cannon yah call a rifle while Ah have a chat with Smokey here."

"No!" Smokescreen cried with a mulish look. "No more guns, more combat training, my brother is too little and you have no right to override me on this!"

Ironhide sighed, seized Smokescreen's servo, and yanked him down the hall to his office before the Praxian could do more than flail an arm.

Optimus stood there, optics widened to the limits of their apertures, and wondering what in Primus debris chute just happened. He lingered with his barely coherent friends too in his stupor, for the slammed automatic door slid open again and an imperious black hand attached to a red arm pointed in the direction of the shooting range. The door slammed again.

Gathering his much tattered dignity around him, Optimus meekly obeyed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Ironhide sat down in his chair heavily and sighed in relief as his joints hissed from decompression. He opticked Smokescreen contemplatively, but the irate Praxian refused to give him the satisfaction of civil conversation. Smokescreen stood behind the haphazard row of guest chairs, arms akimbo, and doorwings twitching like he wanted to pace.

"So," Ironhide began. "Ah know yah upset with me, but Ah'd hoped yah'd at least let meh explain."

Smokescreen frowned deeper. "You mean distract me while your helpers further enamor my brother with the 'glamors' of warfare and make me into the bad mech when I gotta tell him no!"

The old soldier sighed. "Smokey, Ah really need yah to let meh explain."

The Praxian huffed and flopped into the nearest wing friendly chair. "then talk quickly."

Ironhide offered him a chagrinned smile. "Yah know, Ah'm actually against teaching younglings combat skills of any kind, if it makes ya feel better."

It did not and Smokescreen raised an optic ridge to indicate for Ironhide to get on with his explanation.

"Look," the old Iaconi said sternly. "Ah know yer upset with meh, and Ah understand he's a lil'un who's had a real hard time of it in his sparklinghood, but this is war. Ah wanted tah wait just like you,but Ah kept picturin' what would happen if thah 'Cons got in 'ere and the bitlets didna know how tah defend themselves."

"That's never going to happen!" Smokescreen interjected angrily.

Ironhide gave him a long hard look until Smokescreen could no longer take the optic contact and looked away. "It won't." he continued to protest petulantly.

"Smokescreen, you were in thah meetin' where Prowl told us all that thah 'Cons was plannin' a global takeover and how he described the evacuation would hafta work. Iacon's gonna be thah las' one standin' and unless yer plannin' tah send yahr brother away to thah refuge colonies, he's gonna be with us when we're surrounded by 'Cons on all sides."

Smokescreen's wings fell and he stared at the floor as that sank in. He looked up and spoke despairingly. "Prowl and I had the best sparklinghoods, our creators doted on us. Blue… he never got that and it was not fair, and I can't live with myself knowing I didn't at least try to make up for that."

Ironhide's field pulsed out in sympathy. "He loves thah two of yah, yah know. You two are his world yah 'ave made him so happy. When Ah talked tah 'im about what we might start 'im in, he confided in meh thah he has never felt wanted before. He swore to me very seriously that he would learn everything I could teach 'im really well so he could protect the two of you and make sure that his brothers were always safe."

Tears dripped down Smokescreen's faceplates and he looked absolutely devastated. "He should have to feel like that. A normal youngling wouldn't even think that way!"

Ironhide smiled sadly. "It's not your fault Smokey. You've done more than good enough in attemptin' tah give Blue a great sparklinghood, but thah early trauma will always be with 'im. It's thanks tah you though thah he's applyin' thah trauma in'a healthy manner. Bein' protective of thah best thing tah ever 'appen tah 'im 's least harmful response he could possibly 'ave."

"What… what do I do?"

"Yah just focus on bein' his big brother an' let meh worry about guidin' 'im gently intah combat trainin' as slowly as Ah dare. Besides, from where he tested in 'is aptitudes, yah won't ever hafta worry about 'im seein' thah front lines."

Smokescreen's gaze sharpened. "You are not recommending him to Spec Ops!"

Ironhide chuckled heartily and began queuing up security feeds for the Armory's training facilities. "No, not Spec Ops, but Armory Special Services, certainly."

Smokescreen puffed up like a particularly offended robofowl. "My sparkling brother is not going to be a bomb technician either!"

Ironhide rolled his optics and activated the holographic viewer. The detailed image showed a little grey Praxian struggling valiantly to clean and assemble an equally small training rifle. Tiny doorwings flared up and forward to collect data as the mechling doggedly went about his task. When he finally finished assembling the rifle, he jumped and thrust his little fists in the air. Smokescreen could see his littlest brother talking with someone off-screen that he assumed was Ironhide until the mech moved on-screen to help Bluestreak position the rifle properly in his arms. Even from the rear, Sunstreaker's golden plating and helm fins were unmistakable. Bluestreak held the rifle like he had been holding it all his life as he strode up to the firing line.

Despite himself, Smokescreen felt his vents holding as Bluestreak took aim. As much as he distinctly did not want his brother learning the ways of war, he also wanted him to succeed in everything he put his servo to.

Bluestreak fired.

The colored stunbolt hit the dead center of the target and Smokescreen jumped in his chair in celebration. Ironhide cocked an optic ridge at that, but the eldest Praxian did not dignify it with a response. What followed on the feed was a montage of Bluestreak scoring bullseye after bullseye, over and over, until the rifle was empty.

Smokescreen turned to Ironhide. "How many joors did you have him practicing for that?!"

Ironhide smirked. "Thah was his first try."

Smokescreen looked at the frozen still of the last shot and whispered. "That's not possible, no one is that good their first try."

"Whaill, that ain't exactly true, it just takes a very, very special an' rare spark tah do it."

The blue mech's vents seized, then he gasped. "Blue's a point one percenter…"

"Yup," Ironhide replied. "An' if Ah'm naught mistaken, he's gonna be thah best sniper we ever had."


Ok, so the warning from the top of the chapter. The guns the sparklings use are akin to paintball guns or underpowered airsoft guns. Completely safe and perfect for teaching kids how to handle real weapons when they are adults.

greencateyes99: glad you liked it!

kittyKat010: my characterization of Ricochet is heavily influenced by stories by dragonofdispair, taralynden, and silberstreif, who I highly recommend as fantastic writers.

CNightJoy: very much so not telling, but I think you will enjoy it!

RainbowGuardian13: I would say things are actually going a little too good, but I can't really complain.

Vela513: the elevator is yours my dear.

Zeth: oh yes, lots of shoveltalk, lots! And Smokey's trials will be very enjoyable indeed.

Dutchess-Of-Dirt: thank you! (and welcome! I don't believe I have had the pleasure of a review from you before.)