I finally got around to updating again! Let's hear the applause! :D
Anywee, this time you get feels, feels, more feels, and a cliffhanger. Mwahahahaha. I am a meanie.
This chapter is a lot longer than any of the rest... enjoy it... it will not happen often.
Chapter Eight
Prowl walks slowly back toward the tactical office, his processings in a crazy whirlwind. He can still feel the phantom weight of the mechlet in his arms. Bumblebee... did he actually name the yellow sparkling? What was he thinking?
He slipped up back there. He almost revealed that he was Bumblebee's Creator. Luckily no one caught on. Or he thinks.
The sound of fast, soft pedefalls pace after him and Prowl's optics tighten as he realizes who is following him. Of course that mech would figure it out. Gathering information is what he was made for. He would have made the connection. It was foolish for Prowl to even consider thinking otherwise.
"Prowler, wait up!" Jazz calls as he nears and Prowl fights the urge to walk faster. Instead he forces himself to turn and face his friend. Jazz slows to a stop in front of the black and white doorwinger and Prowl can feel the concern oozing from the saboteur's nonchalant exterior. Jazz doesn't smile, which is odd. Jazz always smiles. "How you holding up?" the smaller, silver mech asks.
Prowl stares at the T.I.C. impassively and says formally, "Quite well. I am going to go to my office and go over some-"
"That's not what I meant, Prowl," Jazz says with his air of carelessness dropping immediately. Prowl's optics narrow at the interruption and the fact that Jazz doesn't even seem the least bit sorry for the rudeness. Jazz doesn't notice his irritation and continues, "I realize you probably just need time and space, but..." Jazz shakes his helm before going on, "Firefly was your mate and that mechling in there," he gestures back toward the rec room, "is your creation." Prowl blinks without expression as Jazz stares at him with exasperation starting to show even through his visor. "Prowl, you can't run from this," the silver mech states softly.
"I am not running," Prowl says his optics narrowing even more.
"Then why is Ironhide taking care of your son?" Jazz calmly asks with his arms crossing.
"It was Optimus Prime who chose Ironhide as the sparkling's caretaker and it is only for a few cycles (days), he will then be taken to a youth sector," Prowl answers stiffly.
"Do you really think an orphanage is what that mechlet needs?"
"Yes!" Prowl intakes deeply as he realizes he just snapped at Jazz and then says in more civil vocals, "Yes. I do."
Jazz doesn't believe him. He can see it even as the saboteur holds up his servos in surrender, "Ok." Jazz steps back as if to give him some venting room and Prowl just notices that his armor was starting to flare outward defensively. Immediately he settles it back onto his frame and flicks his doorwings in a silent apology. Jazz will forgive him...
Jazz always forgives him. Kind of like Firefly.
Prowl's whole frame stiffens as his processor leads him back to the painful memory; his throat pipes burn and his optics suddenly blur unexplainably. Swiftly he nods a goodbye to Jazz and turns away with something clogging his vocals.
"Prowl?" Jazz stops him and Prowl turns his helm slightly to indicate that he is listening. There is a brief silence before Jazz says almost softly, "I just want you to know I'm here for you."
Prowl's vents stall and almost hitch in his chest. He clears his throat pipes hastily and replies, "Thank you, Jazz." Even as he walks away and feels Jazz's penetrating optics watching his retreat he feels a fresh wave of pain settle over his spark. Was he being a horrible father? Jazz must understand that this is the only way to protect the sparkling. If Prowl would get close to Bumblebee he would just fail him. Like he did Firefly.
His frame seems to be walking by itself as he reaches the tactical room and disappears into his office. As soon as his door closes behind him he promptly buries himself in a mound of work to forget. Anything to forget her. Anything to ease the pain.
Kliks (1.2 earth min.) turn into breems (8.3 earth min.) and breems merge into joors (6.5 earth hrs.) as the tactician slowly loses track of time. He barely notices as his awareness levels begin to diminish. He doesn't notices at all as his optics shutter and his helm droops forward in exhaustion, nor does he feel his helm fall forward onto the stack of datapads in front of him...
"Prowl," a feminine voice sounds from the corner of his office. His helm snaps up and he sees a form emerge from the shadows of his office almost timidly. He frowns at the thought that someone got into his office without him knowing.
"Who is there?" He asks with authority in his vocals and the femme steps out of the shadows with her optics huge. Firefly... how? He doesn't care. Prowl stands so swiftly that his chair clatters backwards onto the floor. He steps toward her with his spark pulsing in utter joy that she is here, but... something is wrong. She is frowning at him. Prowl stops short and stares at her, confused. "Firefly?" he questions cautiously.
"You didn't come," she says softly and steps further out of the shadows. What he sees almost makes him wish that she didn't. Injuries litter her frame and blue energon gushes out of her wounds.
"Firefly!" he gasps and reaches for her to help her. To stop the endless flowing of blue. He tries but it bubbles through his finger digits on onto the floor even more rapidly in light of his efforts. Firefly doesn't move as Prowl franticly tries to stop the gurgling life fluids from emptying out of her battered frame. "It is okay," Prowl mutters feverishly and he holds his servos over the largest of the wounds. The blue liquid stains his servos and Prowl stares in horror at the growing puddle at their pedes.
"Why didn't you come?" Firefly asks in no more than a whisper. Her optics begin to glaze over and flicker. No...
"Just stay with me, Firefly. I will get you to Ratchet," Prowl murmurs as he tries to stop the energon that floods out of a new wound. "Just hold on. It will be okay," his words are lies even to his audios. She is beyond saving.
"Why didn't you save me?" she whimpers sadly with tears forming in her fading optics.
"I am sorry, Firefly" Prowl chokes out, trying not to begin sobbing, "I am so sorry."
"You didn't come," she repeats.
Prowl shakes his helm with tears rolling down his faceplates as he continues desperately to try to stop the fatal leaks coming from her, "Stop."
"You didn't come," the accusation is more biting as she repeats it over and over. A large hole appears over her spark chamber. Sparks and energon pours from the hideous bent and twisted metal and Firefly's vocals are chopped short. She staggers forward, her optics dark. Listless.
"No!" Prowl cries, lunging to catch her as she crumples to the ground. Her frame collides with his and her helm rolls off of her shoulders as they crash to the ground together. Her helm rolls and comes to a rest facing him. Her optics light up red and she hisses at him with malice, energon spewing from her lip components along with the biting words.
"This is all your fault!"
Prowl jerks away from the sight with a cry and hits the ground harshly on his backstruts. His optics online swiftly and he scrambles to his pedes with his chestplates heaving wildly. His whitish optics frantically scan his office. It is empty. No glowing energon is on the floor. Firefly is not here. Prowl vents harshly at his illogical actions and calmly uprights his overturned chair then sits down with his whole frame forcibly rigid. His optics continue to scan the room for a while longer before he vents again and places his helm in his trembling servos to squeeze his optics shut against the emotions and the pain in his spark. He vaguely hears a soft knock on his office door before the bot at the entrance comes in.
"Prowl," the deep baritone of the Prime enters his audios and Prowl's helm snaps up.
"Prime," he says as he rises, "I was not expecting you."
"I realize this," Optimus says with some worry budding in his optics, "I am here because some of the tactical bots thought they heard you... in your office." There is a long pause and Prowl mentally supplies the word 'screaming' or 'shouting' in the polite hole in the Prime's sentence. "They were concerned for you and when they tried your door it was locked," Optimus continues with electric blue gaze on Prowl, "Since none of them have the clearance to enter your office when it is locked they sought someone who did. Hence my presence."
"You do not need to explain yourself to me, Prime," Prowl replies with his optics lowered.
"Naturally," Optimus says with a small smile on his faceplates, "But as I recall you do not enjoy having your space intruded without reason." Prowl only nods to answer and Optimus' worry doubles. "Are you feeling well, Prowl?" Optimus asks with his optic ridges furrowing in growing concern.
"I am fine," Prowl says softly, but the tremble in his doorwings beg to differ with his statement. Optimus' keen optics catch the subtle sign of fatigue before Prowl can mask it as a twitch and the Prime frowns.
"It is late. I think you should go to your quarters and get some recharge," Optimus suggests as he watches the tactician move to the other side of the desk.
Prowl begins arranging the datapads on his desk as he answers, "I still have a lot of work to do."
"Prowl," Optimus warns.
Prowl stops with his servos clenching several datapads. His doorwings shakes visibly and then droop tiredly, no longer trying to conceal his exhaustion. The H.T. looks up at the Prime and vents slowly, "Yes sir."
Hot Rod stealthily picks his way down the corridor. Over the vorns (1 vorn=83 earth yrs.) he has gotten to be an expert at sneaking out. This time is different. This is the first time he is attempting to sneak other bots out with him. He still wonders what he was thinking, asking all those mechs to join him. Maybe it was the utterly bored look on the Wreckers' faceplates that was so terribly pitiful that he had to have mercy on the warriors and invite them to have a little fun.
Besides, Hot Rod reasons, he has a pretty good feeling that every single one of them need an outlet of the anger they feel toward the cons for the destruction of Praxus. He knows that he still does, but until he gets another mission he needs to hit something to release anger before he does something stupid to land himself in the brig again. He will go utterly insane in there!
Hot Rod hears someone coming up the hallway behind him and they are clearly attempting to be sneaky. The key word being attempting. Hot Rod smirks as he picks up the sound of another pair of lighter pedes. Make that two someones attempting to be sneaky.
Hot Rod waits at the corner of the hall and anticipates the approaching perpetrators and wonders who he will find. Everyone is supposed to be in recharge, the base did have a curfew for anyone not on guard duty. Guards don't try to sneak around the base and the Wrecker's wouldn't make that much noise…well, exept maybe Bulkhead.
The two dark frames round the corner and Hot Rod pounces. He grabs the larger one in an arm lock from behind then uses the mech's bulk to trap the smaller bot against the wall. There is a grunt from the bigger mech and a small squeak from... Arcee?
"Springer?! Arcee?!" Hot Rod hisses with irritation at being found. Even in his ire he still finds it funny that Springer's cooling systems kick on at the fact that he is currently being pressed like a sandwich against Arcee's frame. Springer's helm twist to glare at Hot Rod and the light green mech scowls at the fact that he can barely wiggle a centimeter in any direction in the larger mech's steel grip.
"Hot Rod, let go!" Springer hisses back.
The tri-colored mech obliges and roughly spins his friend to look at him, giving him a 'what-the-slag' glare, "What are you two doing out here?"
At the same time Springer snaps in a whisper, "Why didn't you invite me?"
Hot Rod pointedly looks down at his friend's femme companion then back up to him with a raise of his optic ridge. He mouths 'She's why' without even trying to hide it from Arcee. The femme narrows her gaze at the larger of the pair and points a slender digit into his faceplates with her lip components opening to give him a piece of her processor.
"Shhhhh!" Hot Rod hisses suddenly and flattens them against the bases wall in the shadows. From down the corridor they see Optimus Prime and Prowl leave the Tactical Office and turn down the hall away from them. Prowl looks like slag, Hot Rod notes with a smirk. Now back to the problem at hand. Hot Rod vents the air he had been holding then turns to his friends.
"I can handle myself, Hot Rod," Arcee retorts in a force whisper after she can't hear the sound of the two mech's pede falls anymore.
Hot Rod gives her an unconvinced, mocking smile, "I have no doubt."
"Besides I'll look out for her," Springer interjects quickly, seeing how incredulous Hot Rod looks. This causes said mech to turn unimpressed optics on him. A snort of disbelief huffs though the tri-colored mech's vents.
"Fine," he scoffs before shoving the two down the hall, "hurry up or we'll miss the window."
They listen to him. Which is a pleasant surprise after what happened with the Wreckers a few cycles (days) ago.
As the threesome approach the exit Hot Rod spots the Wreckers. A grand total of six. Hot Rod smirks, he is quite impressed that this many of them managed to stay out of the brig this long, they must be more excited about leaving than they let on before. He ignores the looks he gets from the rough mechs at the sight of his two tagalongs and greets the only guard on duty.
"Hey, Blades," Hot Rod says with a smile.
"You're cutting it a little close kid," the mech says with a short laugh. Hot Rod and Blades have a mutual understanding; when Blades is on duty he lets Hot Rod have a little leeway on the security change and vice versa. They haven't been caught... yet.
"Come on, Blades," the tri-colored mech says with a shrug and arrogance resonating in his vocals, "you know that's just how I roll."
The guard smirks at the younger, cocky mech and opens the base doors, "Right. I forgot. Anyway have fun."
"I always do-"
"And next time..." Blades calls after Hot Rod, causing him to whirl around and give the guard a look of irritation for holding him up, but Blades merely matches his gaze, "think of who else you might be effecting before you get yourself thrown in the brig." Hot Rod nods with a slight smile coloring his lip components as he realizes he must have had guard duty one of those lunar cycles he was in the brig and, since he wasn't able to fulfill that duty from the brig, caused Blades to miss out on an 'outing'.
Oops.
As the door slides shut and locks behind them the Wreckers all let a vent of relief.
"Careful of the security cameras," Hot Rod warns as he heads toward the streets of the sleeping Iaconian city. The mech transforms into his Cybertronian race car alt mode and speeds through the mainly empty streets. He bites back a snicker as he hears the Wreckers bickering behind him and he wonders just how long it will take them to question exactly where he is taking him. Pyro and Topspin sidle up to either side of him casually... apparently not long.
"So are we just going to cruise through the city for the next two joors (1 joor=6.5 earth hrs.)?" Pyro asks with a little disappointment tinting his tone.
"No," Hot Rod replies, "we're going to the street fights of Tyger Pax," he throws in rather mildly. All the Wreckers, save Bulkhead, laugh in sheer joy and anticipation of the coming events.
"But street fighting is illegal," Bulkhead says as he drives up closer to the front of the group to talk to Hot Rod.
"I know," the young mech says scoffing.
Bulkhead frowns deeply, "I don't think this is the best idea."
"We should listen to Bulkhead," Springer reasons from the back of the pack.
"Yeah," Arcee agrees with the more mature mechs and Topspin groans emphatically.
"If you don't want to go, then don't," Topspin states, refusing to allow anyone to come between him and a lunar cycle of freedom.
"Yeah," Wheeljack adds with humor, "It's not like we're holding a cannon to your helm." His tone slightly suggests that he might if Bulkhead doesn't come willingly. The big, green Wrecker groans in defeat.
"Bulk," Roadbuster interjects in a wild voice promising adventure, "don't you want hit something?"
Bulkhead grunts, "Yeah."
"But why are we going to Tyger Pax?" Underhand asks, "Isn't there street fighting in Iacon too?"
Hot Rod allows a self-satisfied chuckle, "That my friends, is because I've already beat all of Iacon's street fighters," he says non-too-humbly.
"Ok," Pyro says his pitch high and unbelieving, "so the little mechlet has been around the block!"
Said mech scoffs in sarcastic humor at the jab pointed at his younger age.
The group exits the city in a little less than five kliks (1 klik=1.2 earth min.) and head in a direct course for Tyger Pax. Traveling approximately eighteen miles a klik they reach the city's gates in less than four breems (1 breem=8.3 earth min.).
As they transform and approach the northern gate of the sleeping city of Tyger Pax one of the guards places a servo in front of Hot Rod to halt him and the group following him. The guard glances at all the mechs and the femme present and then says, "Sorry, Autobots, no weapons within city limits. You can retrieve them on your way out." The guard adds the last sentence as a select few in the group begin grumbling. As he stashes the many weapons away in the guard station to be stored by his fellow sentries he feels the need to reassure the group with some humor, "Don't worry, we do this to Decepticons too, so no, we don't have a pick on you."
"Well that sure is good to know," Pyro says with fake sincerity. The guard makes an immature face at the reddish-orange mech and Pyro sticks his glossa out in return.
The bots are granted entrance to the city with smirks on their lip plates at the sparklingish exchange between the guard and the Wrecker.
After wandering for about a klik (1.2 earth min.) Hot Rod stops the group, "Wait here," he orders. The Wreckers promptly wonder down the street a ways and Hot Rod scowls deeply. Frag them.
The young mech leaves the only two who listened, Springer and Arcee, and heads to a back alley where he knows someone will be waiting. He spots the silhouetted form of the mech he was looking for leaning against a dark abandoned structure.
"It's a nice lunar cycle (night)," the mech observes casually as Hot Rod approaches.
"I didn't notice," Hot Rod replies as he stops a few feet away. The mech turns his helm to look the young Autobot over carefully and a frown visibly settles on his faceplates.
"Hot Rod," he pulls away from his leaning and steps further into the light, "We all heard about what happened in Praxus."
"Yeah? What's it to you?" Hot Rod asks with his optics narrowed.
The mech shrugs, "I worked in Praxus for a while as an intel bot under the designation Sharpsay. The job got a little bit bad for my health, if you know what I'm saying. Anyway, I had a lot of friends there." The mech frowns again, "You Autobots planning on doing something about it?"
Hot Rod scoffs, "I don't know if the higher-ups are going to, but you can bet I'm going to make them pay any chance I get."
The mech hums thoughtfully then asks out of the blue, "So how are you finding the city?"
Hot Rod grins at the security question then answers, "A bit dull." One down.
"You don't enjoy visiting Tyger Pax?"
"On the contrary, I rather enjoy what happens behind the scenes." Two down.
The mech smiles wryly then asks, "What kind of behind the scenes are you referring to?"
Hot Rod returns his smile with a grin, "The kind that involves broken knuckle bolts." Three down. He celebrates mentally at his victory and raises his optic ridges at the mech expectantly.
The mech purses his lip components, "That's illegal."
"And that's not a question." Four down. He is in.
The mech smiles at the young Autobot and leans back against the wall, "The scene you're looking for is down this alley."
Hot Rod grins then turns and motions for the others to come. Springer and Arcee are the first ones there considering that they didn't wonder two blocks down the street from boredom. When the last of the Wreckers file through the alleyway Hot Rod nods to the mech with a smile, "'Til next time, Sharpsay."
The mech smirks, "Its Slit here in Tyger Pax, kid."
Hot Rod nods in acknowledgement then paces after the Wreckers with Springer and Arcee sticking close to his tail. He leads them into the dimly lit back ally with confidence as the sounds of metal slamming against metal reaches his audios. He hears a cheer from inside the abandoned structure and he smiles as he spots the entrance. Without hesitation he saunters through the doorway of the old building. His senses are assaulted by the sight.
The lighting in here is no better than in the alley. Its dark and loud. There is a temporary energon bar set up in the back with makeshift lights lining the top, casting an eerie bluish light on the mechs and femmes seated at its tabletop. He can see several tables with chairs sat haphazardly throughout the room full of bots. Shady serving femmes wade through the rowdy mechs with trays of glowing energon cubes in their servos; they offering flirty and somewhat seductive smiles to their customers. In the middle of it all is a circle of bots, cheering and betting on the servo fight going on in their 'ring'. The Wreckers have already barged in the crowd and have began throwing in their own bets.
Hot Rod looks at his two friends that stay at his side as they take in the scene with wide optics. He proabably should have made more of an effort to make them stay at base. They didn't belong here. In his slight remorse, Hot Rod decides not to join the fighting and stick with his friends for now. Just to make sure they will be okay. He leads the way to an empty table in the farthest corner there is while sending scathing glares at any mech who lays their perverted optics on Arcee. Most of them get the message, but there is a few who still openly drool over her. That is to be expected. Arcee is what many mechs would consider gorgeous.
Time slowly crawls by them with the three friends talking about whatever comes to processor, chasing away unwanted mech attention, and Hot Rod giving Springer pointers on how to flirt with fembots. After a short while Hot Rod realizes that Springer is beyond help. Especially when he asks Arcee for permission to try the pointers on her. Hot Rod sits back though, and finds some amusement in the two's 'flirting'. It is actually quite pathetic, with the cheesiest pickup lines Hot Rod has ever heard. As he laughs good-naturedly at their expense he turns his helm and his optics find a femme in the swarming crowd.
She is black and would nearly blend into the darkness if not for the flashing purple that accents her frame in all the right places. Hot Rod allows his optics to roam over her enticing curves and swaying hips. A small smirk plays across his features as he sits back in his seat to get a better view of her slim, agile figure as she easily twists around the frames about her. She ignores the lewd comments coming from the mechs nearby without so much as a glance in their direction. When an overcharged mech grabs the femme by her waist and pulls her into his lap with a boisterous laugh Hot Rod's smile disappears rapidly and he catches himself before his engine can gun loudly in irritation.
Why should he care?
But he does.
Before the femme's skidplating even settles onto the offending mech's lap she agilely throws her legs up, flips off of the mech and grabs the his left arm. She lifts him from his seat, grabs the back of his helm and slams his faceplates unmercifully into the table in front of him. The mech crumbles to the ground.
A huge, satisfied grin splits Hot Rod's face plates at the mech's expense.
The purple femme turns with a leer at the now unconscious mech by her pedes and he can finally see her face plates. Hot Rod's smile falls from his faceplates as his facial recognition program activates and identifies the purple and black femme.
Blitzer.
How in the name of Unicron is that femme still online?! Her broken bond and the injuries he had inflicted upon her should have offlined her! Okay... so he clearly underestimated the femme, but it sure as the pit won't happen again.
He turns to his attention back to his friends at the table, "Springer, why don't you take Arcee to see the sights," he says. His tone indicates that it is far from a suggestion.
"That's a great idea!" Springer says, snapping two of his finger digits together. He rises from his seat and turns to Arcee and chatters on about something he wants to check out in the city, completely oblivious to the Decepticons that Hot Rod is now spotting all around them.
Barricade.
"What do you think, Cee? It will be fun," Springer says to the femme that is still sitting down.
Knockout.
"Hot Rod?"
Hot Rod vaguely hears Arcee calling his designation.
Breakdown.
His battle hardened optics continue to scan the crowd expertly.
Deadlock, oh slag.
Hot Rod hears his engine growl in irritation that the cons entered the alley without him noticing, a rookie mistake.
Skywarp.
The Decepticons obviously do not know that the Autobots are present based on their smiles of enjoyment and rowdy behavior. Hot Rod scowls as his optics brighten in anger toward the other faction.
Nighthawk, double slag.
"Hot Rod!" Arcee snaps him back to attention. Okay, so maybe he was ignoring her. So what? He looks at the agitated femme with a raised optic ridge and his growing anger at the Cons showing in his expression. Arcee's servo covers his pleadingly, "Please come with us?" she asks, her optics begging him to leave the street fighting scene behind.
The young mech just shakes his helm at the femme's request as he stands, "You two had better get going. It's about to get interesting." He leaves out the fact that there is no way he is going to miss out on a showdown with Decepticons.
Springer and Arcee both turn in their seats, optics searching the crowd of bots to see what Hot Rod does. Spotting the Decepticons, their optics widen in fear. They are not warriors yet, so the two have not seen a Decepticon, save a prisoner or two. Arcee is the closest to being put on active duty, as a scout, and still has a long time to wait to be promoted to warrior class.
Springer rises from his seat quickly and offers the dark blue femme a servo which she takes hesitantly. Springer turns to his flamboyant friend with worry shining in his azure optics. Knowing that there is nothing else he can do besides get Arcee away from the scene, he says with worry, "Please be careful, Hot Rod."
Hot Rod gives him a brilliant smile, "I always am, aren't I?" He gives Springer a light punch on the shoulder and the light green mech frowns, his concern only growing. Hot Rod grins again before Springer can try talking him into coming with and says, "I'll be fine. Meet us at our entry point in a joor." He doesn't give Springer a chance to reply as he turns away from the pair to make his way through the sea of frames.
Blitzer sits alone at her table, expertly ignoring all the advancements mechs try on her. She stares down at the steel table top feeling empty. Usually these lunar cycles (nights) out were much more fun, but this is the first time she has been here since her brother's deactivation.
Not only that, but her father is drawing away from her as well. She can feel him slowly shutting her out through their bond. Why? Did she do something wrong? Did he blame her for Extractor's offlining?
Blitzer scowls. He didn't have to, she already knows it was her fault... She should have, could have done something, anything, to protect him. He was her baby brother, it was her job.
Someone sits down next to her without a word and Blitzer's temper rises. Mechs just don't take a hint. She is on the verge of snapping at whoever it is when she sees it is Megatron's Second, Nighthawk. Her frame relaxes instantly and she turns to face the handsome, aerial mech.
It doesn't take a genius to see that promoting the mech and demoting a certain seeker was the best decision Megatron has ever made, and the warlord knows it too. Something about Nighthawk is un-Decepticon to Blitzer, thought, and it isn't just her imagination, because he is closely monitored by the Decepticon Communications Officer Soundwave. He's different. Maybe that's a good thing.
Nighthawk observes her quietly and she can almost hear his thoughts. She had lost much the last few cycles (days)and he always took it upon himself to look after her. He wouldn't have to, she is just as tough, and perhaps even tougher than a most of the mechs that call themselves Decepticons. She can handle herself. She doesn't need anyone to protect her.
Nighthawk frowns at Blitzer's stiffening posture. She is upset. That he can tell.
She has ever right to be. Pit, her brother just offlined! Her father is a glitched up case who feels the need to push her away after everything that has happened. Nighthawk would be willing to bet every credit he's made as a Decepticon that Megatron had something to do with the larger warmonger's recent withdraw from what remains of his family unit. Knowing Blitzer, she probably thinks that everyone blames her for Extractor's offlining. The very thought is absurd. Extractor always thought he was invincible and Nighthawk knows that no one will ever realize just how many times Blitzer saved that insolent fragger on the battlefield.
Extractor always rubbed Nighthawk the wrong way, but Blitzer? Blitzer is a gem. She is the pure, bright spot shining in Galvatron's life, but now that her Creator has visibly shut her out there is nothing stopping him from becoming exactly like, or worst, than Megatron.
Nighthawk admires her. The femme is raising a femlet that isn't even hers in a base full of vicious mechs that would sooner shoot a sparkling then ignore it. Why wouldn't he admire her? There isn't a single mech at the Decepticon bases in Metropolis and Kaon that don't see her for what she is. A warrior, and a fragging good one.
In a way she reminds Nighthawk of his old friend Elita1's sister, Chromia. Rough.
Nighthawk tries to disallow himself to dwell on his long lost friendship with the beautiful noble fembot, but the thoughts seep in unbidden. It was a miracle that they had even been friends in the first place. The middle, femme creation of Sentry, a noble mech in the high council, befriending him, a rag-tag orphan nobody claimed.
Nighthawk attempts to clear his processor from the unwanted thoughts of his long-gone friend. The war tore a rift in their bond that is unamendable. He was a foolish, selfish mechlet when the war began. He did not once think of what it would do to Elita1, then Ariel, if he joined the Decepticons. Not once.
He is pulled from his processing rapidly as his keen optics zone in on familiar faceplates... Wheeljack?! Why would that Wrecker be here all by h- His red optics land on another mech. Underhand.They seem to pop out of the crowd of bots now as Nighthawk spots Wrecker after Wrecker. Oh, slag. His gaze is captured by a rather young mech making his way toward them. Hot Rod.
Blitzer is in no way ready to face her brother's offliner.
"Let's go," Nighthawk orders as he turns back to her, only to find her staring at him blankly. Her red optics containing none of their usual life and spunk.
"Why," Blitzer demands to know.
"You are not ready for this," he says simply. With that the black aerial mech rises from his seat and leaves the table, expecting the femme to follow. As he paces away from the table he notices that he hears no pedefalls behind him. Nighthawk glances over his shoulder plating and curses under his vent when he realizes Blitzer is exactly where he left her.
A tri-colored mech stops next to her shoulder and smiles wickedly... Hot Rod.
"Does Daddy know where you are, femme?" a dark and sinister voice asks from behind Blitzer. She feels chills run up her mainframe but she doesn't turn to face the mech. She is in no mood to be bothered. "Where's your idibot little brother?" the mech continues but his vocals turn slightly taunting and the femme feels her energon begin to boil. She glances at the mech she is getting ready to pummel with a scowl and nearly topples off of her seat in shock and anger.
Hot Rod!
All the fire and spirit Blitzer had been missing in her optics rushes back escorted by fury. She stands up from her seat; her legs hit the chair harshly and causes it to crash to the floor loudly. The whole alley falls silent as they stare at the impending showdown. The mechs and femmes closest to the pair scatter out of the way as Blitzer pulls herself to her full height which is still over two feet shorter than the mech in front of her. Her attempt to frighten him brings a small amused smile on the handsome mech's faceplates and this causes the purple femme to nearly snap under her fury.
This is the mech responsible for Extractor's deactivation, for her father distancing himself from her, and for all her misery!
Before she can lash out at him she feels someone at her shoulder and sees Hot Rod's optics leave her to look expectantly at her backup, daring said mech to do something. She catches sight of a large servo fisting and a flash of dull white paint, Deadlock. Blitzer can see Hot Rod is not intimidated by the mech behind her and she scowls at him. Her scowl deepens as she sees the Wreckers making their way out of the crowd to stand behind their fellow Autobot with cocky, 'let's-tango', smirks on their faceplates.
Breakdown steps up to her other shoulder to lay a servo on her shoulder armor in an attempt to pull her away from the infuriating Autobot mech smirking down at her. She pulls herself out of the Decepticon's grasp and steps toward Hot Rod menacingly until their face plates are barely several inches apart. Her lip plates are pulled down into a hate filled snarl as she fights the sudden urge to spit in his face.
"Murderer!" Blitzer hisses venomously as she begins backing away from him allowing Deadlock to position himself protectively between them.
"That's real fresh coming from you Con. I mean, considering what you just did to Praxus," Hot Rod says in false laxness to feebly conceal the hatred in his words.
The femme to stop in her tracks, her frame shaking with anger.
"The city wouldn't have taken so long to raze if it weren't for that femme," Skywarp snaps disgustedly distracting the Autobots from Blitzer's distressed state she is entering. "Then we wouldn't have to waste so much time tracking down those pit-spawned escapees," he mutters quietly, to himself mostly.
Blitzer has to squeeze her optics shut against the barrage of images playing through her vision at the mention of the destroyed city. Her spark clenches with guilt and sorrow as the many faceplates of the ones she offlined flash rapidly through her processor. The Autobot is right. She is the murderer! She opens her optics and pushes the unwanted memory files back into their well-guarded section. The screams of the blameless slowly fade from her audio receptors and her cold Decepticon views slaughter her sentiments and she continues to walk away with no hint of the regret she was just feeling.
"I hope you're haunted by the innocent sparks you snuffed for the rest of your miserable online cycles (days), you glitch," Hot Rod snarls, losing his cool façade and taking a threatening step toward her.
Deadlock moves to cut the Autobot off, but Breakdown beats him to the punch. The bulky, dark blue mech steps in front of the larger mech challengingly, but at the same time Bulkhead cuts in shoving his broad chest against Breakdown, jostling him backwards. The Con's features darken considerably and he pushes the green Wrecker backwards roughly with a leer etched on his faceplates.
"Get outta my face, scrap ton!" Breakdown growls with immense detestation radiating from his vocals, the femme could tell he is recalling the long history he had with the mech he is facing and it is clear he still thinks he has old scores to settle.
Bulkhead regains his footing and stops the other Wreckers from advancing on the con with a raised four digit servo. "He's mine," the dark green Wrecker mutters to his brothers-in-arms.
"Wait!" a loud voice calls from the energon bar.
All optics turn toward its owner and a small mech rushes in-between Breakdown and Bulkhead.
"The only fights that occur here take place in the ring!" the tiny, blue mech shouts, pointing toward the crude 'ring' drawn on the alley floor. "There will be no cheap, underhand Decepticon or Wrecker tricks! This will be fair!" he yells pointing at the two mechs facing off, who are all but ignoring him. "And only one fight at a time or I will throw the lot of you out!" He gestures his servos wildly toward rest of the bots around him, including the Autobot and Decepticon sympathizers in the crowd who have commenced to glaring at each other.
"What do you say, Butthead?" Breakdown asks with a gleeful glint in his yellow optics.
"Bring it on, turn coat," Bulkhead jabs with malice dripping from his vocals.
Breakdown growls and, not even bothering going to the 'ring', he tackles Bulkhead to the ground. A roar rips through the crowd as they press in to begin yelling words of encouragement to their favorite and placing bets.
Blitzer shoves her way to the front of the mob to get a better view of the fight.
She sees the two mechs violently exchanging blows, hatred etched clearly on their features. But there is something more, Blitzer realizes, something deeper, and it is toeing on the line of betrayal. Each mech is acting as though the other betrayed him. That's rather twisted, the purple and black femme thinks with a scowl.
This is also rather stupid. She brought the Decepticons here for a little get-away from everything, under her father and Megatron's radar. At this rate they're all going to be thrown into a brig and will have to sit there until their masters come and pick them up!
Blitzer winces as Bulkhead lands a hard punch to Breakdown's jaw hinge. The Decepticon quickly retaliates with a jab to his adversary's gears. This causes the green Autobot to duple over in pain, but he still manages to roll away from the kick the con tries to land to his faceplates. Despite the green bot's massive size he manages to leap up off the ground smoothly. Bulkhead runs at Breakdown and grabs him roughly. He lifts his foe off the ground with a strained growl and tosses him into the crowd.
Mechs and femmes scatter in a mad scramble to get from under the large flying Con.
Breakdown lands harshly in the crowd, causing bright orange sparks to fly around him as he screeches to a stop. An angry yell comes from under the light blue con and Blitzer doesn't even have to look at the unfortunate spark to know who it is.
"Breakdown!" a mech's voice hollers indignantly, "My finish!"
Breakdown leaps off of his superior with a wince on his faceplates; he knows Knockout values his finish above anything else in the universe.
A few snickers sound from the crowd and Blitzer detects them coming from the Wreckers.
"Breakdown!" Underhand says tauntingly, "Now you've upset your fembot!"
Knockout's helm snaps to look at the Wrecker his optics flashing angrily and Blitzer almost groans.
"What did you call me?" Knockout hisses, his fury mounting as he walks up to the scarlet Autobot. He comes to a stop in front of Underhand, servos planted angrily on his hips, showing no fear even though he is missing a good three feet on the Wrecker.
As Breakdown and Bulkhead pause their needless pounding to watch their comrades' tense encounter, Blitzer decides to take the opportunity to save them all from brig time and the wrath of their leaders. She quickly runs between Knockout and Underhand placing both of her small, slender servos on the Decepticon medic's chest, pushing backwards lightly. She was taller than him so it wouldn't be hard to hold him back forcefully if it came to it. Hopefully it didn't come to it.
"Knockout, stop. It's not worth it," she says lowly, but the Wrecker's words drown out hers.
"You heard me," Underhand says spitefully, daring the Decepticon speedster to do something.
"Knockout," Blitzer's vocals transform from a gentle coaxing to that of a hard, no nonsense superior. "Stand down," she orders with her optics sharp. The medic scowls deeply at her, but slowly turns away in stiff obedience.
Blitzer catches sight of Nighthawk's impressed optics as she follows closely behind Knockout.
: Well done, femme, : Nighthawk says with a chuckle through a private comm link. : Way to prove me wrong. It appears you were ready for this. :
Blitzer ignores the comment as a cold fury courses swiftly through her energon lines with one look to her left. Him... Her helm snaps forward again as she tries without avail to rid her processor from the sight.
Hot Rod stands with his leg struts braced apart, arms crossed over his chest, and a pleased-as-pit smirk on his features.
He is happy at her pain? What kind of sick, sadistic mech is he?! He does not regret offlining Extractor! He is happy about it!
Blitzer feels her frame vibrating from an untamable fury mounting in her core! Her servos ball into trembling fists and she stops short.
Nighthawk's smile slowly falls from his features and he vents out softly, "Frag."
I hope you like it. Read and review if you please, and if you want. Reviews make me happy. Reviews are like puppies and kittens kind of happiness for me.
