Ok, so, 5 and a half months of writers block is completely unacceptable and it has been really frustrating. However, I think I may have finally gotten over it and back into my writing groove. Hopefully, some of my faithful readers are still around to enjoy the rest of the story.

Thanks for your patience and enjoy the next chapter. There will be more to come soon.

Author's Note: it seems that FF dot net ate my section dividers. Hopefully it will leave them in this time.

Chapter 10:

Bumblebee stood tall with his servos clasped behind his chassis as he surveyed the room imperiously. The quarters afforded to his creators were usually for visiting officers of significant rank, and were therefore very well appointed. His sire was lounging on the standardized couch in the suite's common area and was speaking with his personal secretary, Chalice. Goldbug looked up from his work and motioned for Bumblebee to approach with a smile. Unfortunately, a rather heavy, likely sentient, object glomped the yellow minibot and ruined his perfect poise.

He stumbled under the friendly assault and looked down. Ah, his carrier. Hornet was rather short, even for a minibot, and barely stood to his creation's shoulders. Bumblebee turned in the black and orange's embrace and snuggled in as best he could. Now that his carrier's faceplates were no longer buried in his back, Bumblebee could hear Hornet murmuring about missing him so much, so very, very much. And could he and his sire please make up so that he could visit his bitlet without needing the intervention of a massacre.

Bumblebee smiled and relaxed. His carrier was the most perfect mech to ever walk the surface, or underrealms, of Cybertron. Perfectly patient, perfectly diplomatic, perfectly wise, perfectly loving. Hornet had been, and likely always would be, Bumblebee's greatest counsel and rolemodel.

The happy moment was broken by a tap on Bumblebee's shoulder. His sire gave them an indulgent look and waved to the couch. "We have many matters to discuss my creation, and not much time before we leave."

Bumblebee resisted the urge to roll his optics, his sire would never respect his decisions if he gave in to sparkling-like behavior. The lounge was more comfortable to sit on than the yellow assassin expected, and he highly suspected that it had been appropriated from the Prime. He watched him sire sit down next to him as though they were still on good terms with one another, but he said not a word. He would not be initiating this conversation. Let his sire do all the work of carrying a conversation; it made the work of speaking tactfully and tactically much easier.

And apparently Bumblebee's little bit of rebellion was not even noticeable as Goldbug spoke without even a frown at his creation's odd taciturnity. "It is good that you have come home my youngling. The Prime has attempted to deny my sovereignty and continue to hold you captive to his service. Now that our people are few, the refugees given alms at the fickle pleasure of the Prime, I know that you will wish to do your duty by them. We have been informed by his highness that Cybertron is no longer fit for our presence, and we are to be shipped off to asylum on some Primus forsaken moon! Since the Autobots have deigned to give us but a few more orns to say goodbye to our homeworld, you will need to be quick about your resignation and pack your belongings."

This. This right here was why he always ended up in a shouting match with his sire. Bumblebee swallowed the first, and then the second and third, retort he wanted to utter. Why was it that his sire always acted as though Bumblebee's deference and compliance was assured? Bumblebee was the crown prince for Primus sake! A mech who was expected to rule a kingdom could not be so pliant and expect to reign well!

Bumblebee shunted his increasingly angry thoughts to a side-thread and composed a tactful reply. "Sire, I will always love you and carrier, and when you need me I will come for you. However, neither of you need me in this, and I am still needed by the Autobots. I cannot leave them at this time, it would be a betrayal of my oath."

Hornet looked sad despite his smile and Bumblebee knew then that his carrier would support him. Goldbug on the other servo? Not so much.

The shiny Lord of the Minibots was turning a fetching shade of fuchsia in his upset, but then it disappeared. Ah, obviously his sire was going to attempt diplomacy now. "Your carrier and I appreciate your continued care for us despite your long absence. However, your oath as a Prince of the Underrealm supersedes all others. It is time to begin your training as heir to my throne. The training is time-consuming and we have put it off long enough. Attempting a long-distance course is impossible as well, as such would compromise the security of our temporary colony. Surely you would wish to rule your people well and not fail them when the time comes?"

Well,… Bumblebee did have an answer to that, but his sire would not like it. His plan had been in place for vorns, but the timing for announcing it was not now. The recent exodus was throwing off his timetable and there would be little time to warn Thorn of the acceleration, and its fallout.

Bumblebee sighed in feigned resignation. "You are right sire, I must do what is right and best for our people. However, I have been gone so long that my position as heir will have to be ratified before the people, lest they think ill of me."

Goldbug waved a dismissing servo. "That ritual is merely a formality, it is not necessary…"

"No!" Bumblebee interrupted fervently. "Now of all times it is important that we uphold our traditions and culture. If we let ourselves forget in favor of expedience, we will have lost ourselves in the haste of the emergency."

So much of Bumblebee's plan rode upon his sire staying true to minibot high court standards, and it was hard to reign in his desperation. His sire pondered his imploring insistence, but, like most all minibots, he was traditional to a fault. "Very well, it will appear good before the people to see you so dedicated to our ways even at this stage. We will have the gathering at the beginning of tomorrow's dark cycle. Go now and finish your affairs with the government of the Prime."

Bumblebee rose and bowed to Goldbug. "Yes, sire."

The yellow minibot did not waste time in exiting the suite, and as soon as he turned the first corner he slumped against the wall with a sigh of relief. He opened a comm to his co-conspirator and was apprising him of the coming event when an incoming call interrupted them. He opened the commline and listened for a moment, then hightailed it to the medical wing.

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

Jazz scrubbed furiously at his plating to remove the last bits of detritus from this mission. Some of the energon from the 'Cons had caked on to his armor and become a sticky trap for particulates in the Rust Sea. The two had combined to form a particularly itchy plaque on his plating. Scrubbing it off fulfilled both the urge to scratch and the need to remove the marks of battle.

Once the last offending area was clean Jazz stepped out and under the dryers. He contemplated going back to his quarters to rest, but he had some observations that he needed to get down on a pad before he lost them. He would drop the datapad off with Prowl to be added to his report, then go to berth. He knew his beloved friend would appreciate the additional information for his analyses;

With that plan of action in meta, Jazz left the wash racks and headed to his office. He forewent polishing and buffing because of his fatigue, but as he entered Tactical he thought he might have erred in that decision. Prowl was at the central holographic tac-table and had looked up when Jazz arrived. The saboteur's appearance must have been worse than expected because Prowl's doorwings flicked in blatant concern, though his brow barely creased in corresponding emotion, and Jazz's presence of meta nearly left the stratosphere as he fixated on those beautiful appendages. Prowl paused his simulation and moved over to Jazz, causing the out-of-it mech to jerk his attention away from his increasingly amorous thoughts. Now was not the time to fantasize. It was very difficult as Prowl's proximity increased. The Tac-Helm exuded protective dominance and did not so much as loom as seem to curl concernedly around Jazz, despite not changing posture at all.

The Polyhexian was so distracted by Prowl's mechliness that he nearly missed the softly intoned query. "Are you well Jazz? Should you not be in your quarters resting?"

Jazz gave a tired, relaxed smile. "Yeah, Ah'm fine Prowler, jus' got some stuff Ah need ta get out o' mah meta while it's still fresh, ya kno'?"

Prowl nodded hesitantly and stepped back out of the Polyhexian's way. "Do not overstress yourself trying to 'get that stuff out of your meta'. I would hate to need to call upon Ratchet so soon after your return."

Jazz snickered at the obvious quotation marks hovering around Prowl's words and nodded. "Ya got it Prowler, anehthin' fo' ya."

Jazz moved onward to his office; feeling sharply the intense gaze that followed his progress. Jazz entered the room and locked the door behind him. He leaned against the doorframe and scrubbed a servo down his faceplates. He was so tired, and that much exposure to a mech he could not yet, maybe never, have was almost lethal. He was seriously contemplating a nap on his sofa when something on his desk caught his optic.

He stared. Then pushed off from the door to stare some more. Circling the desk to look from different angles did not help the sight either.

To all appearances some mech had left him a gourmet platter of energon treats. The only mech with the codes to be able to do this had been left just outside the office and the intense stare suddenly made so much more sense. His spark was circling Cybertron at light speed when a sobering thought entered his meta, what if Prowl had only left this because he thought Jazz might be hungry after his mission? They were best friends, and friends looked after one another. Jazz also had never made a secret of love of goodies. He drooped. That was probably all it was, just friendly concern, nothing to get excited over.

The black and white was about to dig into his food with depressive gusto when he noticed that the treats, and accompanying drink, seemed to be arranged in a specific pattern…

Jazz shook his helm and subspaced the entire tray. He was going to take a nap now, and then he was going to see a femme. He was far too tired to deal with this right now, and he was not going to chance that this was all an exhaustion induced hallucination. If he was right, then he needed a clear helm to deal with it.

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

The Medical Wing. A shiny, white realm of healing and safety. Or at least it was supposed to be. It was definitely shiny and white, and certainly a realm of healing. However, it was far from safe.

Mecha who transferred in from other bases, or were newly registered, assumed it would be like the friendly hospitals and comforting clinics of their pasts. They swiftly learned better when they entered the Lair of the Hatchet™.

Within this brightly lit cavern lurked a ferocious dragon who breathed profanity harsh enough to melt the strongest ego and threw around wrenches and foolish soldiers like lawn darts. Those who knew of the Hatchet's ire tread carefully and ducked for cover when those who did not respect the beast were near.

Bumblebee was one of those mecha in the know and felt justified in the creeping manner in which he entered the medbay. He peeked carefully around the open (they were never open!) doors to the Medical Wing. He saw no one, so, Bumblebee leapt, rolled, and then ducked behind a sturdy medberth. The yellow assassin peeked over the berth-top to survey the room. Empty.

Where were the doctors and nurses?!

Dread crept down Bumblebee's dorsal column. The Hatchet was lying in wait for minibot energon.

Bumblebee looked around for a safe route across the danger zone, but the Hatchet had long ago circumvented possible escape by any wily special operations agents. The ceilings were high and completely smooth, not even the brilliant lights afforded any servo holds. The vents were tiny and embedded in the floor. There were no shadows, no hidey holes, and no rescue.

Bumblebee was doomed.

He still attempted to cross the room without detection.

The yellow opsmecha made it all the way to the private room labeled with the little seekerling's glyph and was breathing a vent of relief, when a heavy weight descended upon his shoulder. Bumblebee whirled around and slammed his back against the door with a hunted look. Storm grey and orange plating met his optics and the minibot nearly collapsed with the exventing of his terror. "Oh good, its only you Air Commander."

Thundercall smiled in obvious amusement. "Ratchet wants to see you before you talk with the winglet."

Jerk, Bumblebee thought, see if he was so happy when an energon-thirsty Hatchet was feasting on his spark!

Then the Autobot seeker's words registered and Bumblebee's energon froze.

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

Jazz could not recharge.

He tossed and he turned. He pounded his pillow and tried lying without it. Covers on, covers off. Nothing was working. Every time he thought he might be close to dropping off, thoughts of the goody tray filled his meta.

Thoroughly disgusted with his lack of ability to recharge, Jazz arose with a snarl and stormed out of his room. He schooled his features to pleasantness and slowed his angry stalk to a confident slink as he moved through the base. It would not be wise to frighten the natives.

A short trip and he was in the under-ground. Jazz knew that Solaris and his ward were currently on guard duty and therefore would be in the Gallery, as opposed to recharging like everyone else. As the black and white moved in that direction he ceased to silence his movements. Solaris would detect him far before Jazz was close and his heightened state of agitation made it too much work to bother trying to sneak up on the triplechanger. It was a good exercise for his ops skills, but not at a time like this.

And sure enough, just before Jazz reached the last tunnel, the black, red, and gold femme melted out from the darkness. "Jazz, my friend, what brings you to the city of the femmes at this time of the dark cycle?"

The Polyhexian looked around uncomfortably. "Ah found a gift in mah office when Ah got back from mah mission."

Solaris' optics lit up and his wings fluttered. "Jazz that's wonderful! What did you get? A courtship is often determined by its first offering, so it is important that you tell me exactly what you received."

Before Jazz could reply or take the platter from his subspace he was tackled by a very enthusiastic youngling. "Jazz! You came to visit! How have things been up top? Has Prowl responded to your temptations yet?"

Jazz was bewildered by the flurry of questions and thought to himself that they should get the femmeling enrolled in an interrogation class, anymech would start answering if for no other reason than to get Windblade to be quiet.

Solaris on the other servo chuckled at his ward's behavior. "Calm down little one, Jazz is here to tell us of the gift he received this very orn."

Windblade's optics turned luminous as he faced the saboteur and his little servos balled up into fists as they came to rest under a quivering little white chin. It was the epitome of gimme, gimme, and Jazz was helpless to resist it. The black and white pulled the platter from his subspace and held it out for the femmes to examine. The cube and its surrounding delicacies glowed brightly in the low light, which made their specific placement all the more obvious. Both of the Praxians took a shocked in-vent.

"Jazz, you need to think really hard right now about what exactly you want from Prowl." Solaris whispered reverently.

Jazz slumped. "It's'a r'jection isn' it. It's'a fraggin' Praxian friendship zonin' isn' it!"

"No! For Primus sake Jazz! He's asking you for a bond courtship!" Windblade exclaimed.

Solaris gave the younger femme a stern look, he had not intended to spring that information on the hapless Polyhexian quite so suddenly. Jazz's visor widened and he swayed dangerously. Solaris moved forward to catch the saboteur if he fell, but was shakily waved off.

Jazz cycled his vents a few times with deliberate slowness. "Really?" he asked with fragile hope evident.

Solaris smiled. "Yes Jazz, Prowl is seeking to see if you are worthy of a bond. Each of the parts of this platter have a different meaning starting with the intertwined glyph of your names that the placements spell out. It indicates that this offer of courtship is specific to one mech, you, and is not open to just any one. The cube of energon is a promise to provide for you; the spicy treats signify that your combined lives will never be monotonous; the sweet centered sour balls promise that he will try to always reconcile with you in cases of quarrels. The crystal chunk squishes are a request to keep him flexible as he provides you with a protective frame work of stability; and the rust sticks are a promise to stay strong and true to each other as you grow old."

Jazz stared down at the tasty declaration of affection in wonder. "How do Ah say yes?"

The femmes smiled…

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

Unlike his earlier trek through the Medical Wing, Bumblebee's trip to Ratchet's office was swift. If the CMO summoned you, you dropped everything to attend. It was still a shaky servo that rose to knock on the door. An indeterminate bark conveyed Ratchet's permission to enter. Bumblebee entered with a dive behind the nearest visitor torture device, one commonly known as a chair.

"Lieutenant Bumblebee reporting as ordered, sir!" he squeaked.

A hefty snort greeted that and a small L-wrench ricocheted off the back to ping off Bumblebee's helm. "Get your aft up here and stop hiding like a glitchmouse."

The minibot stood, rubbing the sore spot on his forehelm, and carefully situated himself on one of the most uncomfortable seating devices ever created. He tried to look small and pitiful in hopes that the Hatchet might have mercy on him, but he only earned another snort.

"So," Ratchet began. "I have, out there, a very delicate youngling whose mental health is very poor and who will need the focused attention of his kin to grow up properly. Yet, I can't give him to the foster trine who so dearly desire to adopt him, and apparently, this is all your fault."

Bumblebee shrunk down into a tiny ball. "H-how is that?"

Ratchet stood up and loomed. "Because he imprinted on you!"