Hello again!

As promised, here is more! (Also, the missing section dividers from the previous chapter should be back in.)


Chapter 11:

Bumblebee peeked into the door of the little seekerling's room. His seekerling now, apparently. According to Ratchet, seeker sparklings imprinted on the first mech to touch them with loving intent. The repeated accelerated upgrades had exacerbated the imprint need to the point that any touch would have resulted in imprinting. From the notes the CMO acquired from Jazz's intel, Shockwave had purposely kept him in a cage to create this phenomenon with the intent to have Sunstorm imprint upon Megatron to ensure loyalty. When Bumblebee opened the cage he ruined that permanently. Hopefully Shockwave would never find out.

Being the caretaker of a sparkling was never something Bumblebee had ever imagined would happen to him, much less a seeker sparkling trapped in a youngling's body. It was this reasoning that had the minibot looking with such trepidation into the room of his new, and first, charge.

Sunstorm was currently held in the thrall of a classic fairytale as told by Thundercall. He looked so animated as his optics flashed and winglets twitched in synchrony with the exciting parts of the tale, and Bumblebee feared ruining that. The bitlet could have had a seeker family, kin, those who could teach him properly of his own kind. Instead, he was stuck with a lowly minibot. The irony of an under-dweller being caretaker to a skyling was certainly not lost on Bumblebee.

And there was that too, Bumblebee was Ops and prone to being sent on lengthy, dangerous missions. What kind of life was that for a vulnerable, delicate mechling?

Some noise must have given him away, as two solar-gold optics affixed themselves to his faceplates and the owner of the optics flared up tiny thrusters to throw himself at the yellow assassin. As Bumblebee was bowled over by the two-thirds-his-size seekerling he felt his spark thrum with warm joy. He could not help but surround his youngling with his arms to snuggle closer.

Sunstorm looked up at Bumblebee with luminous optics. "Are you really gonna be my Kahti?"

The minibot frowned slightly in confusion and looked up at the snickering Thundercall for clarification.

"Kahti is Vosian for adopted caretaker." the Air Commander said as he helped the pair up from their sprawl.

Bumblebee nodded and looked back down at his seekerling. "Yes Sunny, I am going to be your Kahti."

Sunstorm squealed and buried his faceplates in Bumblebee's neck. "I love you."

Bumblebee pet the back of Sunstorm's dorsal column and sighed heavily. "I love you too bitlet, but we gotta talk some things over. I'm not a seeker, I can't teach you seeker customs or even how to fly, and I have a really important job here that is going to take me away from you a lot and we gotta figure out how all of that is going to work…"

Thundercall put a servo on Bumblebee's shoulder. "My trine and I have already volunteered to be his mentors and temporary caretakers when you are not available. Do not worry about anything. You are kin now, because of your relationship with Sunstorm and will be cared for as such. Go home now to your quarters and rest with your youngling. Tomorrow will take care of itself."

Bumblebee nodded, and then froze again. His roommate was Cliffjumper, world's staunchest believer in the inherent evil of Decepticons, and especially seekers. How on Cybertron was he going to explain this?

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

Smokescreen was waiting for Prowl outside his office when he arrived the next morning.

They nodded greetings to one another, then Smokescreen turned to follow his little brother into the office.

Prowl suddenly forgot that he needed to get something from data storage and walked the other direction.

Blue and red doorwings perked like a chronowolf's finials during the hunt. Their owner followed the black and white whowas not fleeing, at all, really.

Prowl made it to data storage, but his 'little friend' was still there. Hmm, the important thing he needed to get was suddenly remembered as having been dropped off with an associate and Prowl turned again.

Blue and red wings continued to follow.

Back and forth, this way and that way over there, Prowl fled, ran, searched for the important thing.

When Prowl had asked the same poor confused underling the same question three rotations of the room in a row, Smokescreen finally had enough of his enjoyable game. Blue fingers reached out and snagged the tip of a frantic, droopy doorwing.

Prowl tried to whirl around to berate his subordinate, but the blue fingers were relentless.

"We need to talk Prowl." Smokescreen said pleasantly, belying the embarrassing circumstances.

Prowl did not droop. He did not sag. It was not dignified to do so and he would not ever act in such a manner. As he straightened into the perfect image of SIC Prowl his doorwings showed every emotion he could not.

"Of course Lieutenant Colonel Smokescreen, let us adjourn to my office."

Prowl had hoped acquiescence would get his brother to stop with the humiliating behavior, but Smokescreen knew him too well. The blue and red knew full well that if Prowl were unencumbered there would suddenly be an 'important comm' summoning the younger Praxian to an obscure meeting that would never show up on any log anywhere.

Therefore, the tactician and theoreticians of First Shift were treated to the strange sight of an ultra-dignified Prowl being towed by his doorwing by his very nonchalant subordinate and brother.

All was silent as the pair entered the SIC's office. Then the low buzz of gossip-mongers began.

Smokescreen released Prowl's doorwing as soon as the lock clicked behind them and the younger Praxian almost dove behind his desk for sanctuary. He sat prim and tall in his seat with his servos clasped together on the desk before him as though he had summoned Smokescreen and not been dragged there himself like an errant youngling.

It was very funny.

"So, how'd it go?"

Making Prowl's doorwings twitch was always wonderful sport.

"It… went according to plan, no deviations were noted."

Smokey struggled not to laugh. "No deviations, huh? Makes me wonder what you got him if I didn't even hear about a reaction."

Twitch, twitch went the wings. "He received the standard opening overture as was proper and he did not react openly as is also proper."

Smokescreen frowned. Jazz would not know instinctively not to react and as far as he knew, the femmes had not told Jazz either. What had his brother given the Polyhexian and why did Jazz not jump the gun with a display of exuberant acceptance?

"Prowl, what exactly did you give him?"

Prowl twitched more distinctly. "I told you, the standard…"

"No Prowl," Smokey interrupted sternly. "I'm serious, what did you give him? Jazz isn't Praxian, he won't know to keep his reaction on the down-low. If he accepted, he should have jumped you or at least made a scene over it."

Prowl looked up worried and with the faint horrid beginnings of spark-break. "I… you think… you think he rejected my gift?"

Smokescreen reached out and drew his stiff little brother into an embrace. "I don't know. For all we know he might have misunderstood what it was. That's why I need to know what you gave him."

Black and white wings twitched and Prowl blushed furiously. "I left a traditional courtship platter with markers for exclusivity."

Smokescreen could not help but grin into his brother's helm, when Prowl went, he went all the way. "Well little brother, disregarding that your gift is way more than we discussed, I don't think he recognized the significance of it."

Black and white doorwings drooped forlornly.

"However!" Smokey hastily reassured. "From what my sources say, Jazz has been seeking advice on proper Praxian courtship so I think he'll be enlightened soon!"

Prowl observed his brother shrewdly. "You are not simply endeavoring to soften his rejection are you?"

Smokey let go and smiled. "In regards to you little brother, not a chance in pit."

Prowl gave the faintest of half-smiles then looked down at his datapads and back up at Smokey questioningly. "Have I divulged enough secrets to be permitted to return to my work now?"

Smokescreen laughed and nodded. He exited Prowl's office, being sure to maintain the smile until his brother's door was firmly shut, then dropped it like molten steel. He had a shovel talk to plot out.

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

Mirage was very warm. He did not remember covering up with a warming mesh, nor did he remember even having one on his berth when he finally collapsed the dark-cycle prior. He unshuttered his optics in confusion and looked down.

He was covered in, not one, not two, but five luxurious, superior quality meshes. He sat straight up in shock; he had not seen meshes of this quality since his home went down in flames. Mirage snatched the top most mesh up and began to examine it for its origin mark. He froze with shaking servos when he found it, then began to softly pet it as though needing reassurance that his family's crest was real. He was just getting ready to have a good cry, for the idea of his suitors digging through the thousands of tons of rubble just to find this one personal memento, was more than he could handle, when his doorchime rang.

Mirage flung himself from his berth, scrubbing away nascent tears, and rushed to open the door to greet his beloveds. The watery smile died off his face when the door revealed, not a scout and tactician, but a racer frame courier.

Quikwit, who was a respected ops-agent moonlighting in the Quartermaster's Corp, grinned knowingly. "Captain Mirage, I have a message for you. Are you prepared to hear it?"

Oh, he was so slagged. No… his beloveds were so slagged. They had gotten Ops involved. Mirage knew well and truly that Ops did get involved unless a situation amused them… which concurrently meant that whatever his suitors had planned was highly entertaining according to the fickle humor of his department.

Mirage nodded weakly.

"Excellent! Then in accordance with the prophecy, the mech who identifies himself as Mirage is to be mechnapped, cleaned, and delivered to the roof, whereupon he shall be held for ransom, the terms of which will then be determined by his captors. Are you prepared to comply?"

Mirage was already moving frantically for the doorpad, he was not a toy to be paraded about in such a matter! Quikwit just smiled serenely and placed his servos behind his back. Mirage knew, even as the door closed, that it was too late. A slithering sound betrayed the agent behind him and Mirage turned to engage his would-be attacker, engaging his electrodisruptor as he did so.

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

Quikwit rocked back on his stabilizers and listened to the, admittedly quiet, scuffle on the other side of the wall. He had gotten a few odd looks for just standing there staring at an officer's door, but the placid smile he gave to the overly observant ones either unnerved them enough to leave him alone or caused them to assume the officer in question was the cause of his hallway sentry duty. None were brave enough to ask which suited Quikwit just fine.

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

It was well known across Iacon Base that opsmecha were weird. Being the spark of Ops territory meant that the Iacon stationed mecha were privy to many ops-related sightings and observances, many of which the viewing mecha prayed fervently to unsee.

This, however, took the oil cake, the meal, the highgrade, and the basket they were carried in.

Four opsmecha were seen to be carrying something through the halls while heartily singing the lustiest and most explicit bar and club songs any of the soldiers had ever heard. Many notes were taken for future reference. This, however, was not what made it so unusual, no it was the notably invisible object so clearly tied above the opsmechs helms. The thing was clearly alive as the coils of rope could be seen to thrash and twist to no avail. A few foolishly brave soldiers thought to rescue whoever or whatever the opsmechs had captured, but were fortunately held back by their much wiser compatriots.

When the opsmechs reached the washracks they turned in instead of going onward. Their invisible bundle was delivered into the loving servos of yet more opsmechs.

Then the washrack was closed to the general public, and the soldiers of Iacon Base saw no more. However, just because their optics were spared did not mean their audials received the same treatment. Such caterwauling had never been heard.

And it went something like this:

"You rust laden, scraplet carrying… I refuse to be subjected to such uncivilized treatment!"

*Wham*

*Bang, Bang*

"Get his arm!"

"He's coming loose!"

*Slam*

*Grapple*

*Bang*

"Uncultured Barbarians! Unservo me!"

*Sound of highpowered washer hose*

"Aieee!"

*Slam*

*Crunch*

"That was my olfactory sensor slagger!"

And so it went.

The few soldiers brave and scarred enough to find this humorous stuck close to listen to the fun and wait for the inevitable reappearance of the opsmechs and their victim.

When all was quiet the anticipation rose and the soldiers craned forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of what quarry the opsmechs had caught that needed such a desperate sounding wash. Sadly, they were all disappointed as the four mechs from before exited the racks carrying the same invisible package.

This time however, the songs were of an even raunchier quality as if to take revenge upon the captive for daring to fight his/its captors.

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

When a much abused and embarrassed Mirage was finally released on the west roof access he was fully prepared to never speak to his suitors again. Both of them had the grace to at least look chagrinned by the state of his arrival, but that would certainly not be enough to earn his forgiveness. Mirage decloaked so they could fully appreciate the severity of his displeasure.


Thanks you so much to everyone who reviewed! Knowing that all of you are still around and reading this warmed my heart completely. See you next time!

"By order of the readers, Writer's block is hereby banished from the kingdom of ghost-writer-88" (Love this so much! Thanks canikostar99!)