Looking back, Prowl's whole meeting with the prisoner had probably begun to flounder somewhere during the introductions. It made his processors churn, the absolute lack of caution he'd thrown into the encounter.

The list of things he'd done wrong was boggling.

He shouldn't have gone in to begin with. He should have delegated the task to someone better suited- Gaslight, perhaps. Or Clamp. He himself should have been with the sweep crew, making sure all possible hiding spaces were clear. Or even in the command centre- Anywhere but the brig, really.

Like making sure all infiltrated corridors were immediately inspected upon clearance..

Instead, he had been wasting time with a job far below his assigned rank while one of their briefing rooms caught fire.

At least it had unoccupied at the time, he reminded himself. Otherwise, results would have been catastrophic.

The acting commander was then jolted out of his thoughts when an unnamed response mech leaped past him, aiming to smother a trail of carbon vapor that had been stealthily crawling up a wall below his notice.

Frag, what else could've gone wrong that cycle?

A small, secondary blast went off down the corridor, and mechs were running after it before Prowl even gave the comm command. Someone hit a button, and yellow lights began flashing a floor-wide evacuation warning, signaling in turn for a jumbled melee of non-operational mecha to flee the premises.

Where were these detonators? They have to be placed in spec- No. He stopped that line of thought. They didn't have the data, and he was going to have a crash if he tried to figure it out by himself, and Ironhide would doubtless smash some helms if he became frustrated during command-

Ex-vent, in-vent. Cool the systems down.

His fans soundlessly began to churn, seeking to preemptively extinguish the warnings of a migraine.

Frag, he was in need of recharge.

It was unfortunate he would not have time for an adequate defrag in the near future.

::Shiftshade, this is Acting Commander Prowl.::

::Copy commander, Shiftshade here,:: came the immediate reply. The brig patrol commander must have been expecting contact.

::Small-grade detonation devices were planted during the earlier raid,:: the second briefed shortly. ::The sweep crew needs to know where and how many, before somebody gets terminated.::

There was a short pause as the brisket received his message.

::Understood, sir.::

::Prowl out.::

He grimaced as he cut the line, and reached up to pinch the bridge of his olfactory duct.

This was going to complicate things.

Meanwhile, far both below and away from the Autobot stronghold, a very different string was beginning to unravel.

Pax Alpha was never a very big city. It wasn't built for numbers or strength. It wasn't very popular, either. Iacon had it's crystal gardens, and Vos had it's voluminous spire-tipped towers, but Pax… Pax was just Pax. It was old, and old was all it would ever be.

The sewer-tunnels of Pax's central underground were, most likely, the only notable trait of the relatively rural area. Deep and winding, the tunnels below had become a haven for many over the course of it's existence, and in it's use in the war it had seen civilization become warped and mutated in it's struggle to survive it's destruction. Once a single community of confused, wandering refugees from above, those that now remained had become ruthless, hardened by their hardships and reinforced in their tenacity.

Gangs had inevitably broken out over time; as feuds had spread and resources had grown scarce, a new world had begun to tunnel through the skin of the old like a parasite- A world within a city, a battle within a war. In it's death, Pax Alpha's depths had grown a new life.

Now, strut-deep within a long-since abandoned leakage duct, Kickstart was cursing his place in that life..

The world was shot, his wheels were sore, and the mission had been a catastrophe, plain and simple. Those were the facts.

There was nothing wrong with the plan, no flaw in it's execution,- The simple matter was that not every factor could be accounted for, and a single variable could shatter even the best of plans.

The small mech sputtered as a thoughtless movement sent slick, oily fluids up into his vents.

Frag.

Far away, something skittered in the darkness. The ebb and flow of the sewer filth could be heard from every direction, dripping from unseen corners and nooks with no tangible destination in mind.

The single, small two-wheeler shuddered as an unusually solid ribbon of unknown substance slithered unpleasantly between his armor, catching on a spire.

He brushed it off hurriedly and continued on his way, deep, deep below.

Time passed slowly in the dark. He couldn't honestly tell whether it's been a joor or a cycle when he finally came to an access portal.

The light provided by his optics was limited, but with a little work he was able to make out a thin ring of a different material making up a small portion of the ceiling above the corroded door.

From here, he went up again.

It took some struggle to get the rest of the way through to the antechamber, all through gas pipes and oxidized hatches. When he finally dropped down at the checkpoint, two mechs were waiting impatiently.

"You're late," one intoned deeply. No other greeting is offered; he'd taken this route often enough to be recognized. Kickstart was wise enough to keep his own retort quiet.

"There were complications," he provided. "Wings A and D suffered severe damage during the raid; they've regrouped for now; Wing K is with them, they're taking shifts with B for watch of the escape ways until the searches settle down.

"Commander J-26 is unaccounted for, alongside G-4 and F-19," he added. "G-12, G-13, A-12, and F-17 are confirmed terminated; nine more are assumed but unconfirmed."

"That's Grandstand and Fins out, and Growl, Gem, Axel, and Faq down," The second guard grunted bitterly.

"And The Commander."

"Tripwire ain't gonna be happy."

"It's not my job to make him happy."

The large mech grunted again, waving him off.

"You get down to the pit, drink what you can and get some recharge. We'll sign you off."

Kickstart only nodded, honestly too weary and clogged up to give a damn. He'd seen the supplies the mission had gathered; he saw how desperate their mechs were for fuel and medical supplies. The mission hadn't paid off.

That was it, though. What else could he do? He was the messenger, not a frontliner. That had been off the table since he'd lost his left arm in the tunnel collapse; his days storming bases were over, at least until they finally got truly desperate.

Later rather than sooner, he prayed.

He wasn't sure who he was praying to, exactly, but he hoped they were someone with a little strength to their name. Primus was one he'd given up on long ago. During the first strikes.

Jupiter, he thought out, feeling the glyphs slide over in his mind.

Little, tiny Jupiter.

Feeling a familiar sensation creep into his spark, the two-wheeler shook his helm.

No. There wasn't enough high-grade left on that rock to drown in. Not that night.

Alone again in the alcoves, Kickstart clicked open his comm. link to a code he'd only ever used before once, to a mech whose name he'd never even heard aloud.

::It's set,:: he pinged. ::Contact me when you need more.::

The line closed again with a snap. He didn't need confirmaton to know his voice had been heard. The primes may be dead, but one mech at least was always listening.

Slowly, Kickstart exited the corner and set off for the barracks.

He would not recharge that cycle.

Dead mechs didn't need to sleep.

Words were spoken of high above and far away, deep underground in that minibot's settlement. And both far high above, one mech sat alone in a dark room with dim lights glinting on a wide grin.

It was all set.

"Good job, little mech," he whispered.

"I'll be seeing you soon."