Chapter Four! I am really sorry for the wait!

"Arcee, have you seen Wheeljack?"

The small femme warrior glanced up from her work station, where the medic currently before her had asked—more like demanded— that she do something useful with her life by examining the medical journals in his possession.

Arcee vented heavily, rolling her neck on her shoulders. "Nope. Sorry." She peered up at Ratchet. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"He left joors ago and has not contacted me." The medic scowled, his armor flaring ever so slightly.

"Ease up, Ratch. He's probably working on his ship." The blue femme stood. "I can help look for him, if you want."

"No, I'm sure I can find him on my own."

He could not help but smirk internally at the somewhat disappointed look that flashed over Arcee's features.

... ... ... ...

The brig was dark and cooler than it had been the last time he had entered. His ventilations crystallized in the air, and his pedesteps reverberated throughout the room.

"Wheeljack?"

There was no response.

"Wheeljack!" Ratchet neared the end of the containment center, where the cell belonging to Deathstrike was. His scanners were set at their highest frequency, yet he could not sense the spark signals or signatures of Wheeljack or Deathstrike.

Something flashed in the corner of his vision, and the red and white mech whipped around, surgical blades extended.

There was nothing there.

Calm down, Ratchet. You have nothing to fear. You can handle this.

A dark chuckle sounded behind him, and he turned towards the area where it had come from only to be met with more darkness.

He stopped and turned towards the Decepticon assassin's cell.

The door was wide open, and there was no one inside.

Scrap. Ratchet felt his defense protocols initiate as his senses remained on high alert. He knew that he was dealing with one of the most feared and dangerous Decepticons in Cybertronian history, and knew to tread lightly. Yet that precaution was almost immediately snuffed when he realized that Wheeljack was in danger and had most likely been attacked.

The laugh sounded again, deep and dark as it echoed throughout the room and in the medic's helm.

"Deathstrike, I know you are in here. Where is Wheeljack?"

Something moved in the corner of his peripheral vision, yet Ratchet knew it was pointless to even try and locate the strange assassin.

My dear Ratchet…

The words echoed in his helm, adding to the sense of uneasiness that was beginning to plague him. He remained silent for a moment as he sorted his jumbled thoughts out.

"Deathstrike, you do realize that Optimus is here, don't you? What will stop me from contacting him?"

A vicious snarl sounded and a cold wind blew past the medic, who flared his armor against the force of the unnatural gale.

We both know that is not the best idea. The Decepticon's voice was low and hissing, an almost demented sort of amusement audible in that statement.

Ratchet narrowed his optics as the overwhelming scent of freshly spilled Energon filled his olfactories. Yes, he now knew that Wheeljack was injured, and that Deathstrike was somewhere in the brig waiting for him and the right moment to strike.

"What did you do with Wheeljack?"

The presence near him, in the form of a towering black shadow, moved closer. The scent of Energon grew stronger as the strange wind roared.

Mmm…would you like to see for yourself?

The lights came on, and the sight was horrific.

Wheeljack lay unconscious on the cold metal floor. His armor was torn and shredded to the point of near nonexistence. Gashes, eerily similar to enormous claw marks, lined his frame and gaped like horrid mouths as Energon poured from the gruesome wounds. The Wrecker's icy optics were dark and his helm hung limply to the side. The refined metal of his extended battle mask was torn and sparks shot from the torn wires and circuitry that was a result of the mask being forcefully torn away. His left pede seemed to be twisted and crushed beyond repair, and the armor covering his right leg was shredded more than the armor on his chest. Energon formed a pool around him, and it was growing slowly and steadily, enough to worry the medic.

"Deathstrike! Do you know what this means? You must have no idea what the Autobots are capable of now that you have decided to attack one of our teammates!" Ratchet's voice boomed with more authority and confidence than he held internally. The sight of his teammate lying in a pool of his own Energon was one of the most horrific things he had ever seen, despite the war wounds he had treated over the course of the past few centuries.

Your team cannot harm me if they cannot find me. Sick and twisted amusement came from the assassin's voice, enough to make Ratchet's spark sink and twist in disgust and horror. The assassin gave the impression that he believed this was a game, a form of terrifying amusement. He gave the impression of being so amused that he was acting like a sparkling hiding from its creators.

"You cannot mask your spark signature for long. You will need your energy soon enough, and when we find you futilely attempting to recollect the little strength you have, you will regret ever allowing yourself to get captured."

That demented, growling laugh sounded again, enough to send chills down Ratchet's spinal components. I know you cannot catch me. If my own faction is terrified of me even looking at them, what chance do you stand against me?

Ratchet vented in irritation, resisting the urge to roll his optics. "We can and we will take you down."

Deathstrike snarled viciously, but other than that it remained eerily silent. Ratchet circled the room warily, sensors tuned to a high frequency that he knew would give him a processor ache later, though he found he actually cared little about it at the moment.

"Deathstrike, my warning still stands. I can contact Optimus, and if you continue to hide in the shadows like the monster you are, I will."

There was no response. Had he left? No, it did not seem -

A brutal force slammed into the medic's back, enough to make him keel over in shock but not in pain. His processor began to swim from the shock, and he forcefully stowed it away. Focus, Ratchet. Focus.

A vicious snarl sounded, feral and insane, above him. A shadow fell over him, and he turned to look.

Deathstrike stood there, looming in all of his terrifying fury and insanity, glaring down at him. His sleek black armor was covered in Energon, as well as his extended claws and fangs. His wings flared wide behind him, the shattered remains of the bindings that had been his restraints hanging uselessly. Despite his overall horrifying appearance, his optics were the most terrifying thing about him. Blazing insanely bright, those black and red optics were filled with sadistic amusement, insanity, and feral hunger. The scowl on his faceplates exposed his fangs, fangs that were dripping with Wheeljack's Energon.

The assassin leaned close, engines rumbling in malicious desire.

"You will regret ever challenging me, medic."

Hope you liked! Yes, a cliffhanger, I know...