I've been working on this chapter for about a month, having it open whenever I'm on the computer, ignoring my messages and emails for it, and not making much headway. Finally, finally I forced myself to sit down and finish it, and I think I'm okay with it.

So what have I been up to in the mean time while in my writing slump? Well, school restarted and scared off Landorf, the happiest of all the little pixies and my muse. Oh, and I have been thinking about Transformers. Here are a few key instances:

Kids are selling chocolate and one was trying to convince us that homemade chocolate wasn't as good as the factory chocolate he was selling. I told him that factory chocolate didn't have love, and he said it did because "the machines make love to the chocolate." That is no joke. Take it as you will, and if you're like me you thought of hot, chocolate-coated mechs. Hey, if someone wants to write that, go ahead; just be sure to tell me.

Second instance – my tech teacher was innocently talking about terminology and kept using the word interfacing. As if I wasn't already falling out of my chair laughing, he said this: "And interfacing, you can do it with any technology. You can interface with your cell phone!" Poor Mr. Bear. Not only am I purposely misspelling your name, but I can't help but laugh now when I walk into your class.

The last and the best TF instance was today. We were sent to the back of the tech room (another tech class) and we were working with different parts to make machines. All of the supplies were in nice, neatly labeled boxes. While walking past one rack of boxes I froze, turned around, took a step closer, and double-taked. It said "Interface Cables." I think I died in that moment.

So, enough of my little amusing Transformers moments in real life. Onto the long-awaited story!

Disclaimer: I don't own Transformers or any of its characters, but I do own all OCs used here, as well as Vanos, the Game, and the situations shown here.

Excerpt from the archives of the Defiance, File Name: Family.

Family – that's what we are in Vanos, a family. A big, dysfunctional, unrelated family of mechs with no one else to care about them. Some of us were born here, some of us came here to outrun our pasts, but we're all the same here – family. Here, they don't care about your past, or all of the ways that you've failed in life. They just care about whom you are and the fact that you're here, as a part of their lives.

And in the end, that's all that matters, right?

File Archived by: Slang, the most sentimental pirate Cybertron has ever seen.

Blackjack said his goodbyes to the last of his "guests" while the other crewmembers milled about. Slang and Lonestar were talking quietly and gesticulating excitedly with each other while Timbre looked on with a faint, tired smile. The twins were sitting atop a table, one of them – Smokescreen thought it was Flash – recharging against the other's shoulder struts. Aero was leaning against a wall, glaring at Smokescreen for all he was worth.

And Smokey? He was feeling extremely awkward. Just to keep his servos busy he packed up the paraphernalia of the Game, sorting the deck into its two original decks that had comprised it.

Should he be doing this? It seemed like he should do something nice for the crew for inviting him, but then again, what right did he have to still be here? He wasn't a part of the crew – at least not as of yet – and he didn't want to presume himself special when he really might just be overstaying his welcome. Yes, that was most likely it. Nobody had approached him yet because they were silently wishing he would leave like the rest of the players.

Abruptly he made an about-face and approached the door, making as if to leave. "Thanks for having me," he said quietly to Blackjack. He was reaching for the handle when a servo clapped down on his shoulder, barely missing his doorwing, and he was spun around gently yet quite firmly.

"Where are you going?" Blackjack canted his helm and gave him a bemused and practically affectionate smile. Smokescreen groaned internally. Someone should make that mech wear a faceguard or something, because his resolve-breaking expressions were going to be the end of the psychologist and occasional tactician. They were just too fragging innocent to ignore, and knowing that he wasn't all that naive just made it worse for the Autobot.

"I need to, uh, start trying to find a place to stay for the night." Smokescreen hated how his voice cracked as he spoke.

Lonestar approached, his rotors twitching softly as he made a noise of confusion. "What do you mean?"

He really couldn't figure out why they didn't understand him. "I mean I have no place to stay for the night, so I should best leave now so I can find one before it gets even later."

Blackjack laughed like this was somehow amusing. All Smokescreen could process was that the captain's servo was still resting on his shoulder.

"You can stay here, of course!"

That hadn't been expected at all. "Um, that's really, really kind of you, but I think I should leave. I mean, you barely know me, and I don't want to overstay my welcome-"

"Nonsense! We like to show good faith in new prospects. Besides, Aero likes to glare at them. Makes him feel whole." Blackjack waved his servo as if none of what Smokescreen had said mattered to him. "Tell you what; you stick around and we'll take you on a tour of our ship tomorrow, hmm?"

Smokescreen's optical ridges rose in surprise. If he understood the underlying meaning there, they wanted to get to know him better and take him on the ship...could this mission really be this easy? But the idea of staying with the crew...well, he wasn't so sure about that. Not with Aero glaring at him like that.

"Well, uh, that's a little sudden, don't you think? I mean, we've only just met and all, and I wouldn't want to impose on you-"

"Nope, I've made my decision. You're staying." The captain crossed his arms and wore a smug smile. The Autobot found himself oddly infuriated by this. So what, because he was the captain and some big shot with the pirates he expected everyone to just listen to him?

The psychologist was about to tell Blackjack just where he could put his decision (and his unwavering, spark-stopping smiles) when the pirate continued, "After all, if you're gonna join the crew you gotta get used to hanging around with us."

Oh. Well then, that changed things up a bit. That was a straight answer that yes, if he stayed with them he could get the first chunk of his mission done, and all in one orn. Dang, he was good. Were all Ops missions this easy? If so, everyone had really heightened perceptions of just how "cool" Special Operations was.

"Uh, yeah, right." Did that sound sarcastic? He wasn't sure. 'Yeah, right?' Maybe they thought he was being snarky. "I meant, yeah, yes. Yes." Was that clear enough? And why in the dark, greasy depths of the Pit was he losing his cool now?

Blackjack's helm canted further to the side, and his smile looked like it might split his faceplates horizontally. "So it's a yes?" he repeated with a smirk. It was a light jibe, a playful one. Like something you might say to a friend, a comrade.

Why were all of these mechs so quick to accept him? First Lonestar, now Blackjack, and Slang didn't seem far behind. Only Aero seemed to be truly holding him in suspicion, as he should. Did they not know that there was a war going on here? Even if it hadn't affected Vanos for the most part, it was still most definitely there, and it seemed as if none of these mechs really comprehended that.

This wasn't peacetime – this was war, and in war you didn't trust a word anyone said until you had a good reason, and Smokescreen knew that he most certainly didn't give off the most inviting, believable vibes. Really, he had been kind and grateful so far, but he didn't believe he was really just so inviting looking that they all decided to just trust him right off the bat. These were supposed to be the top pirates on all of Cybertron, right? So what were they doing trusting some mech who they hadn't even run a background check on? For all they knew, he could be an agent of the Council, which had gone underground recently, or maybe a Decepticon, or – Smokescreen winced – an Autobot.

Then it occurred to him. They should know better; they did know better. This whole thing, this staying the night like a sparkling would at a friend's house, it was all a test, a big test. Keep him near them so he couldn't run back to a higher-up, so he couldn't leak information on them. So they could observe him like a turbo-rat in a lab, find out just what his game was. He could only hope that he could pass their tests with his cover intact.

Really, he only could have one answer to the pirate's joking inquiry.

"Yes."

The door shut, almost imposing as it drew closed on the pair, leaving the undercover Autobot locked in a room with a mech he most certainly didn't trust, one who most certainly didn't trust him. One who also was impossible to read.

Smokescreen almost wished they had shoved him with Aero – at least he knew where he stood when it came to the triple-changer. This one, on the other servo, was an enigma and he knew it.

"So whatcha wanna do now?" Slang threw himself across his berth on his front, looking languidly up at Smokescreen with those annoyingly familiar optics. Really, if Blackjack was like a turbo-puppy, then this was his twin in that aspect.

The psychologist sent a tired and hopefully meaningful look at the spare berth that had been brought into the room just for Smokescreen – supposedly, at least. He wasn't so sure he should believe that. After all, from what he had gleaned every mech shared a room when at the shop, simply because the living quarters above the old shop weren't large enough for each mech to have their own room. But from what Smokescreen had gathered from hushed, supposedly private conversations, Slang usually shared this room with Lonestar. The helicopter was with Timbre, supposedly "as usual," but Smokescreen was almost sure that Timbre was the one with his own room, considering his size and his probable paranoia to go with his timid nature.

The twins shared a room, as expected, and surprisingly so did Aero and Blackjack – that was kind of odd in itself. Yet all of this had led Smokescreen to understand that there were set room arrangements, and from the look of this room and what he had glimpsed of others, this was most definitely Lonestar's room, and this berth had not been moved in here recently.

That meant that Lonestar had been moved so Smokescreen could be forced to room with Slang for the night, which meant that there was something about Slang that made the rest of the crew want him to watch the newcomer. Maybe he was the best at reading mechs, or maybe they knew that Smokescreen would have a hard time trying to understand the other mech, but all of this was most assuredly premeditated.

Or maybe he was paranoid and they just didn't want to place Smokescreen in the only free space with Timbre for the fear that the larger mech just might have a panic attack in the night and send himself into stasis. But then why all of the secrecy? The only reason Smokescreen could imagine would be to keep from hurting his feelings, and he strongly doubted that. Maybe Lonestar would care about that, or possibly Blackjack, but the rest of them most likely wouldn't give a flying leap.

Smokey realized that he had left Slang still awaiting a reply, and decided to rectify that. "I was thinking that I would just recharge. It's been a long orn, you know?"

Slang huffed through his vents and pouted petulantly. "Oh, come on! We're supposed to stay up all night talking! Haven't you ever been on a sleepover before?"

This caused the Autobot to pause. Had he been on a sleepover? No, not that he could recall. He hadn't had many friends as a youngling. Sure, he'd had acquaintances that he was on good terms with, and other mechs and femmes that he would talk to in class and sit with at lunch and such, but he had never been in contact with any of them outside of an educational setting. Friends and play-dates weren't really his creators' thing.

"No," he murmured softly, looking the pirate dead in the optics. "No, I haven't."

Slang appeared taken aback, if the naked shock on his faceplates said anything. "You serious?" he asked, mouth agape. At Smokescreen's nod, he shook his helm in disbelief. "Mech, that's messed up. I mean, I thought my life was strange and all, but never having sleepovers? That's just wrong!"

The Praxian really couldn't understand what was so confusing. Plenty of mechs didn't have friends over at their homes.

Stiffly (and in a way that was uncomfortably reminiscent of Prowl) he said, "I don't see what is so odd about it. My creators were rather strict, and didn't want to have multiple sparklings around their home. As they said, if they did, they would have had more than one creation." Primus, not only did he sound like a Prowl-wannabe, but he sounded like a total boring slaghead! Fantastic.

"Whoa, wait a breem, you never had friends over either? That's more than messed up, that's just depravity. You, my fine friend, are a deprived mech and I, your wonderful host, shall fix that."

"Uh, I was really just planning to recharge," Smokescreen repeated in vain. Slang, however, had already made his decision.

"Nope, we're gonna chat 'cause otherwise I'm gonna blast some music to help me fall into recharge, and Primus knows how long that'll take. So, let's get to it, aye?" Slang gestured at the empty berth.

What was it with everyone around here saying "aye?" Was it some sort of pirate thing?

In any case, Smokescreen found himself sitting cross-legged on the unfamiliar berth, having an awkward (for him, at least) conversation with a mech he had just met.

"So your creators, were they upper-class or just hardafts?"

Well that was a little prying, wasn't it? Still, Smokescreen didn't see how it could hurt to answer honestly.

"A bit of both. They were more middle-class, but they were social climbers. Even if they couldn't be upper-class, they could pretend they were and hope to become so one orn. It never did work out for them, what with Praxus being destroyed and all."

"Yeah," Slang murmured, his optics – Decepticon red optics, Smokescreen noted – clouding with a faraway look. His helm then snapped up and a beatific, Blackjack-worthy smile split his faceplates.

"So you came from a pretty good background, right?"

"Yeah – you?"

Slang paused for a moment, weighing his words. "My dad, he raised me good enough, well as he could. Wasn't the best, but it could've been worse."

Smokescreen noted how he mentioned one creator and not the other. So was his second creator deactivated or absentee? Somehow he didn't think Slang would appreciate the question, so he held his glossa.

"Mmm. You get along well with him, at least?"

The pirate was silent once more, his optics dimming in thought. Finally he said in a voice far too soft, "I guess, in the beginning. When I was a sparkling we got along fine – then again, what sparkling doesn't get along with their creators?" He chuckled softly and rolled onto his back, then folded his arms behind his helm and looked up at the plain grey metal of the ceiling, plastered over with colorful posters advertising for different concerts and events long since passed.

What sparkling doesn't get along with their creators? Smokescreen thought. Maybe I really just was that messed up.

A flicker of a memory tickled at the back of his processors, snidely calling, "I'm here! I'll always be here!" Smokescreen resisted the urge to snarl as he forcefully pulled all of his thought processes away from the subject that ailed them. It was one set of memories and a thought sequence that no amount of defrag could remove from his CPU, but with enough firewalls and practice as a psychologist he could bury the whole thing. Not the healthiest approach and by no means what he would suggest a patient do, but hey, do as I teach, not as I do.

Besides, he knew for a fact that thinking on his own troubled past, however simple and mundane his "troubles" were, just brought the thoughts to the forefront of his processors, and confronting them just left him wishing for a place to curl up in a miserable ball of unsettling sparklinghood angst.

Slang continued talking and Smokescreen gladly listened, not only for the sake of his mission but also to draw his mind from the thoughts of his past that terrorized him. "Terrorize" – Primus, he really was a whiny sparkling about all of this, wasn't he? Like simple emotional neglect could be terrorizing.

He jolted as Slang spoke. "As I got older, I guess we just grew apart. He had his job, I had school. It was like we were two strangers living in the same home. He worked at night and slept during the day, and with school I obviously kept an opposite schedule. We might've seen each other in passing, but we didn't really say much. After a while, we just stopped talking. We didn't even know each other anymore."

Oh, Smokescreen knew how that felt. He had barely known his creators to begin with. They wouldn't let him know them, and they didn't care to know him.

"The big problems came when he started dating. I mean, I knew about other younglings my age that had creators that were dating, but it had never occurred to me that my creator would. He was my dad, you know? I didn't want to think about him going out with some random mech or femme. When I got upset, he got pissed with me. Told me that I was old enough to be mature about it and that he should be allowed some happiness in life. That one...that really stung. I knew he wasn't fantastically delighted with life and all, but I'd thought that he was content enough, living with me. Guess I'd overestimated my own worth to him."

Smokey wanted to comment, to tell Slang that it was alright, similar things had happened to him – his creators may have stuck together, but he had grown up hearing about how much creators, obviously other younglings' creators, loved and cared for their creations and each other, and he had never seen that fulfilled in his own life. Those failed expectations, when he acknowledged them for what they were, had cut an unfixable hole in his spark that he still had to this very orn.

But he couldn't say this, because he had never told anybody about it and he wasn't sure he could bring himself to now. Besides, Slang was obviously in his own world as he spoke; he didn't seem to realize that Smokescreen was still there, and maybe that was for the best, considering the information that he was sharing. The information may not have been necessarily relevant to the mission, but it could help him get closer to Slang.

And it was actually really comforting to know that others had felt the same way as him, and still did.

"But he started bringing home these dates to meet me, and he would be so excited, thinking that this was the one. They were always weird around me. Some of them were sickly sweet, treating me like I was a sparkling and talking down to me, and others kind of pretended that I wasn't there at all, because really, who wants to know about their date's illegit creation, you know?"

Illegit? Slang was an illegitimate creation? That was surprising, unexpected, and definitely a slip-up. Slang frowned a bit after what he'd said, looking to Smokescreen to see his reaction. The Autobot wasn't sure what expression was on his faceplates and portrayed by his posture, but it must have been relieving to the purple mech, because the tension drained from his frame and he continued talking as if nothing had happened.

"The relationships, they never lasted. Sometimes they were done with by the next orn, sometimes they stuck around for a while – I remember a particularly ghastly and vapid femme named Nightdancer lasting the longest, if I recall. I hated her so much; she was one of those that seemed to be under the impression that I was a toddler and couldn't understand what the grown-ups were saying. So fragging condescending. She made me wanna purge.

"My dad would bring these strangers home and when they left he would ask for my truthful opinion on them. When I would tell him what I honestly thought, he would get upset with me, 'cause my opinion was never what he wanted to hear. Things continued like that for a while, and we relapsed with our no-communication stalemate. Then it was coming time for me to graduate, and my creator wanted me to go off to one of the higher academies and get certification by one of them so I could go into a bigger, better-paid field of work. None of them had anything that I cared for, though. I never gave a slag about science and looking at someone's insides made me queasy, and I most certainly wasn't cut out for the War Academy. I'm just not into all of that, the tactics or the fighting. That was one of the reasons why I left Iacon."

Iacon, hmm? He wondered if Slang honestly didn't realize all of the information he was dropping, or if this was all a ruse.

"When I told my creator that I didn't care about those academies or any of the others, he got really angry. Said he hadn't been taking care of me for my entire life just so I could throw it all away. I got pissed, told him that he hadn't been doing much caring for a long time. Then he got quiet and just looked at me for a while. Said that if I didn't choose a school to go to within the orn I could just leave and never come back. I wasn't planning on changing my mind, and neither was he, so I left that orn. Packed my things and left while he was at work. Never saw him again.

"I know that on some level he wanted a better life for me than what he'd had. But sometimes I swear he'd look at me like he couldn't believe I was there at all, like there was something wrong with me. I don't know if it was something to do with my sire or simply because my being there was ruining his life – it is a drag to have to look after a sparkling while you're young and single – but even if I'd done what he wanted, our fight was still inevitable. It just happened to be the school thing that set it off. We still would have had that falling out eventually, and at least it happened before he wasted anymore of his credits on me."

Slang fell silent for a long time, staring at a poster advertising for a Vosian air-show a few thousand vorns old.

"Occasionally I look him up, see what he's been doing. He's got new creations now, sparklings practically. I've seen footage of them. He loves those little ones to pieces. The way he looks at them...he never looked at me like that. Like he was made whole just by having me in his life. Like he would never leave me."

The last line was but a mere whisper spoken through trembling lip components. Slang swiped at his ruby optics before any trace of tears could appear, and barked out a hoarse laugh.

"Look at me, getting all upset over something that happened so long ago. He got over me; I should get over him, too, right? But I can't. I just...I can't. I mean, he's my dad. A mech's not supposed to forget his creators. Apparently that doesn't matter in the reverse, though.

"My dad – my creator, he seems happy with his new life, his new creations. I just gotta be happy that he's happy, right? So I try not to dwell on it and just focus on my life here."

The pirate rolled over so he was once again lying on his stomach and stared at Smokescreen with the most serious of gazes.

"I'm not stupid, Smokescreen. I have a reason to be spewing my personal info to a mech I've just met. I know you know that Star is usually in here with me, and I asked him to stay with Tam so I could give you my sob story and get my point across. My creator, he doesn't care about me anymore, and my sire doesn't even know that I exist. For all intents and purposes, my actual family no longer cares about me and doesn't want me. So this here, Vanos, is the best thing that ever happened to me. These mechs, they're my family now, and I look after my family. That means that you need to watch yourself, mech, 'cause I don't tolerate anything against my family. You remember that and we'll be the best of pals."

Smokescreen nodded numbly. That answered a lot of his questions, and piled yet another layer onto his guilt. He felt like he needed to contribute to this, to give something back to the mech who had just shared so much of his painful past with him, even if he was trying to threaten him.

"I..." he trailed off, unsure. "My creators – they stuck around, and they stayed together, but they never cared for me at all. I was...I was just what society expected. You bond, you then have a sparkling. They wouldn't have had me if it weren't for the fact that they didn't want to look bad in front of their peers, be called infertile or something like that. I was just the proof that they could have a sparkling and fit the norm they loved so much."

Slang's optics softened from their serious glint to a more concerned, sympathetic gaze. "What happened to them? Before Praxus, I mean." Yes, Smokescreen knew what he meant.

"I didn't like how they ignored me, but was afraid to say it. Things were getting worse and I just kept trying to appease them – it wasn't working at all. In the end-" He broke off, unable to share that dark part of himself.

Primus, you sparkling, it's not like anything happened, a part of him said. It was just a fight. You've been in a bunch of those – what makes this one so bad?

What made it so bad? He'd always known that he didn't meet hit creators' expectations, but to hear it for himself, that was just too much. And his downward spiral into gambling...he didn't know if he could ever share that part of himself with anybody.

Wow, wasn't he psychologist of the year?

Slang smiled easily, softly. "It's okay, I get it. You're not ready to share it yet; that's fine. Took me a long time to come to terms with my own messed up life, and that was after I'd ignored it all for vorns. You don't have to talk till you want to, and when you're ready, well, I'm always a ready listener. Gotta be when you talk as much as me!"

The pirate laughed, and Smokescreen did too, surprised to find that his amusement at the other's humor was genuine. True, his life had been bad, and what he was doing here would leave more than one mech upset in the end, but for the first time in a long time, Smokescreen didn't feel like an outcast. Even in the Autobots he felt like there was a wall separating him from the rest of them, that barricade of "unwanted" that surrounded him setting him apart, alienating him.

But here, on Vanos, everyone had a strange and often sordid past and nobody was judged for it. Smokescreen could see the appeal of it. Steal some things, make some credits, gain a family. If he hadn't cleaned up his act and joined the Autobots, he probably would have ended up here. Primus, right now he wished he could be a true member of this place, this family.

And that was dangerous. He couldn't keep thinking thoughts like this, these mutinous thoughts. If he kept this up he was going to get himself slagged over in more ways than one. Then the Vanoans would hate him and the Autobots would hate him and he would be all alone...

No, he couldn't think like that, couldn't live like that. He had to live in the here and now if he could ever hope to make it through this mission in one piece.

Even if his spark was being torn to pieces as he went.

Megatron looked over his soldiers in deep thought. He had gathered them all so he could decide just who he wanted to send on this mission. For some reason, he thought that staring at them might make the process a bit easier. In reality it was only making the Decepticons more nervous.

The city of Vanos was a new territory for the Decepticons, one that the great Slag-maker was planning to call his own, just as soon as his agent gained the trust and support of those pathetic, yet admittedly cunning natives. The only problem was, he needed to choose that agent before any of his other plans for the area could come to fruition.

He glanced over his ranks. Who to choose, who to choose...? The seekers were out, because he didn't trust Starscream as far as he could throw him, and considering that Skywarp and Thundercracker were the traitor's trine, he could never quite be sure where their true loyalty lied. For all he knew, if he sent one of those two in they would report on the situation to Starscream before him, or would hide information.

The Coneheads were out for similar reasons. Though they weren't always on good terms with Starscream, they did follow the tri-colored seeker as well as his trine. Besides, it wouldn't do to split up a trine. Primus knew, they might get lonely – a stupid Autobot sentiment.

The gestalts were out for the same reasons as their trines – the slagging bonds couldn't be worked around. Soundwave's cassettes couldn't be sent for multiple reasons. Not only were they too conspicuous, but Soundwave would never let them go without him, and Megatron most certainly wouldn't send off his loyal TIC.

Who was left? There were the triple-changers, but they were not only conspicuous, but also a little too ornery to make nice with the natives. Reflector was out – was there anything that thing could do?

That really just left Blackout and Barricade as the only two Decepticons Megatron felt he could trust to do something right. Which to send? Blackout was more introverted, which could work negatively for them when it came to him getting in good with the Vanoans. While Barricade was easier to approach, he was also very brash and possibly offensive if one wasn't used to his painfully honest and snarky personality.

So if the Vanoans were prissy little pseudo-Autobots that needed to be coddled, then Blackout's somewhat calmer personality would fit them when it came to...befriending them. Just the thought of it made his lip components curl into a sneer of disgust. Who needed "friendship" when you could have power?

He looked out once again at his assembled crew. "Blackout, come forward. The rest of you, get out of my sight!" The Decepticons were quick to do as Megatron commanded, which was just the way he liked it. Total control – did it get better than this? Well, actually yes: better meant ruling Cybertron with an iron fist and crushing those puny Autobrats into space dust under his pede while making his dear brother watch.

Blackout came forward while the rest of the 'Cons left the room, some grumbling to themselves about how pointless it had been to stand around while their leader stared at them. Megatron would have reprimanded them in his favorite way, but he had business to attend to at the moment. Maybe later, if he had time and remembered the perpetrators, he could deal with them properly, and if he forgot who had spoken out, well, Starscream was always available for a good flogging.

"Yes, Lord Megatron?" the sometimes-medic asked in a reserved tone. Megatron sneered at him, simply because he wanted to, and then spoke.

"I am sending you on a new mission, and I expect complete success. You will be deployed to the city of Vanos and gain the trust of the natives. I want them allied to the Decepticons as soon as possible. Soundwave will brief you on the details."

Blackout appeared taken aback, but nodded anyway. What more could he do? This was Megatron, after all. "Yes, my lord."

Little did anyone know, but a Decepticon hadn't left as asked. He waited outside the entrance, listening in on the occurrences. The Decepticons wanted to ally with Vanos? This would not do, oh, this most definitely would not do. He might have bought into the Decepticon propaganda once upon a time, but there was no way in the Pit his innocent – well, almost innocent – city was getting involved in this war.

He would die before he allowed it.

Blaster sat at his console in the Control Room of the Ark, idly wondering how long it would take for Smokescreen to call in. From what he'd been told, he could call anytime from now to a few orns from now. Not very helpful when someone would always have to be on call, waiting to grab Jazz and Prime as soon as the call was received.

He glanced down at Steeljaw curled up in his lap. The metal feline purred as he ran a single digit over his creation's spinal struts. At his pedes lay Ramhorn, snoozing idly, and Eject was laying against him. Rewind was sitting on the edge of the console in front of him, swinging his legs back and forth even as recharge dragged at his optic shutters.

"You should go to recharge, little mech," he said in a soft voice, careful not to wake his other cassettes.

"'M not sleepy," the sparkling replied through a large yawn. Blaster fought the flashback that tried to arise, and just barely suppressed it.

"Sure you're not," he chuckled. Rewind narrowed his optics at him while he yawned again.

This time the memory would not be silent.

"Slang, it's time for recharge, little mech."

"'M not sleepy," whined the sparkling. A yawn broke his pout, showing off a tiny glossa and set of developing denta.

"Sure you're not."

A claw of pain ripped through his spark. The remembered moment was a mirror image with the present. Was he replacing the past with his cassettes? Was he replacing-?

He couldn't even think the name, or he knew his optics would start to fill with cleaning fluid, and he couldn't have that with his cassettes present.

Once, just once, he wished he could see his sparkling again. Not a sparkling now but a young mech. What did he look like? He had gotten Blaster's slightly smaller build, but his features – those were all from his sire. Did he still look like that? Where was he? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Was he alone and scared? Did he miss him? Did he even think about him? Was he an Autobot, or – Primus forbid – a Decepticon? Was he still alive at all?

He stopped himself there. He knew that his sparkling was still online, and that was all he knew about him. Blaster was always searching the Autobots' files and some of the Decepticons' searching for his creation, but had heard nothing of him. He greatly regretted his fight with his sparklet and would do anything to get him back.

But he couldn't. His sparkling was grown now and didn't want to see him anymore, not after he'd run him off. He had his cassettes to look after now.

They could never fill that hole in his spark, though, that hole left by his firstborn.

That hole left by his little Slang.

I don't know if I should have put that part with Blaster in at the end. I wanted to, but I'm not very happy with it. What about you?

I'm quite happy with the whole Decepticon storyline. I have at least seven subplots to this story, and that's the introduction of one or two of them.

Anyways, please review!