An apology for every star in the sky! I was really out of it the last week. Work and Gundam and ferocious headaches and such. Thus I will probably post a few times this week to make it up to everyone.

I think I've sprained something in my brain. I'll have you know I took my last two Advil and a powernap exclusively so I could stare at my computer long enough to get this up.

Please don't sue me. I don't own Transformers or make money from it. And I don't feel goodL

Ironhide's Mid-Life Crisis

There were many things Captain William Lennox was not looking forward to before the new day was out. He was not exactly looking forward to explaining to the secret agents swarming L.A. what he was doing returning the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security from their abrupt disappearance. He was not looking forward to explaining to his commanding lieutenant why exactly he wouldn't be on-base today. And most of all, he wasn't looking forward to explaining to his wife exactly why he had followed his own truck to Nevada in her little wagon in the middle of the night. No, this just wasn't William Lennox's day. And it was only 5 a.m.

After starting the small, Japanese vehicle and releasing the e-brake, he unholstered the walkie-talkie at his belt and put it in the cup holder, switching it back on. "You there, Ironhide?"

"Of course I'm 'here.' Your device is patched directly into my comms," grumbled the irritated truck-impersonator.

Will rolled his eyes, but without any gusto. It was too early. "I know that, but you're in a bad mood so who am I to assume you're listening?" Indecipherable grumbling. "Are you coming along or not? Because I really love my wife and I'd rather not send her an angry alien robot right now."

"I will accompany you on your errand. That fragging drone 'Simmons' will regret it if he tries anything with me on his tail."

"Er, thanks. Just don't do anything conspicuous, I'm sure he's not that dense." I hope, he silently added.

"I'll have you know that I was practicing stealth before your genus evolved into Neanderthals. I would not have to transform to take him out."

"That's not being inconspicuous; that's just not giving away that you're a four-story humanoid machine from Cybertron. There's a difference, Ironhide."

"A technicality."

Lennox sighed. "It's too early to argue with your brand of logic. Please just drive friendly."

"As long as he does the same." The irritable mech huffed. He clearly needed to blow something up. Repeatedly.

The politicians in the back of the wagon shared a nervous look. The captain noticed it in the rearview mirror and shook his head. "Don't let him bother you. The old codger's just cranky because he won't do anything violent and he knows it." He gave the dashboard a gentle thump, but upon hearing an unfamiliar rattling sound, withdrew with a start muttering something unkind to Chloe. The loud engine following them revved louder and a puff of hot air distorted the atmosphere above Ironhide's smokestacks.

"Old codger indeed! I'm younger than…" he trailed off and that odd staticky Cybertronian whined over the walkie-talkie. "…slag."

"What? Is something wrong? Ironhide?"

"Frag it all, Will; I might be eldest. Give me a #breem#"- that word just didn't sound human somehow, and it made the walkie-talkie fritz again- "and let me figure this fragging thing out."

No one in the passenger vehicle had a clue what "this fragging thing" was, so they just sat in awkward silence for several minutes. In a town that was just an intersection of two roads, a Dunkin' Donuts stood illuminated, shining rays of caffeinated hope into the mornings of commuters and formerly kidnapped government officials alike. Both the black SUV and Chloe pulled in and the drivers went to order their morning fuel. Ironhide pulled into the tiny mini-grocery across the street, smokestacks positively fuming with heat.

Simmons looked nervously at the alien truck as he tried to push a door clearly marked "pull." "Is something wrong?"

"I think he's having a hundred-fifty-thousand-year midlife crisis. Nothing to break out the liquid nitrogen for." Will yanked the door out of the shorter man's grasp and approached the bitter-looking girl painting her nails behind the counter.

By the time they exited, carrying armloads of corrected and re-corrected orders to their respective vehicles, Ironhide was poised- very aggressively- to exit the minimart back onto the main road. Simmons was carrying his cartons and bags at arms length as if they offended him, still eyeing the truck with suspicion.

Sipping his chai contemplatively, Will distributed the morning feast of high blood-pressure and arrhythmia and pulled onto the highway behind Simmons. The whole car was on the edge of their seats with suspense. "Well, old man?" Will prodded, "have you figured that "fragging thing" out? Are you older than dirt or what?"

"Vulgarity doesn't suit you, sparkling, and I believe the expression is "with a greater age index than subatomic particulate." The giant robot's jab sounded good-natured however. "I don't understand the human preoccupation with relative age, but being the eldest would be… irksome at best."

"And at worst?" Realizing what she'd said to whom, Loretta Hewitt's eyes widened and clapped a hand to her mouth, bagel falling to the napkin on her lap.

A low growl, "Downright irritating. If Jazz were here, I'd wipe that smirk off his faceplates myself. The clever little glitch rerouted the old record file pathways; would have had to use Prime's clearance to do it. Midlife crisis indeed. This is a huge security breach, and no one ever noticed after all these millenia."

"Ummm, what did Jazz do that's got you so worked up? And why..?"

The giant truck snorted. "Like I know what went on in that sneaky little head. Prime would probably understand, but I sure as the Pit don't. He rearranged our registries so it would be impossible to trace a refitted bot's history back to before the Cataclysm. I'll be slagged if I know why."

"You're rambling."

"And you're interrupting. I'm trying to tell you that prewar models like Optimus and I all have a chunk of our age misplaced in the records because of Jazz's hack. He must have been a junior officer, and using Prime's fragging clearance! Show-off. I probably wouldn't have caught it if I'd changed my name like the rest of them."

"Slow down, big guy. Whatdo you mean by "prewar model" and "refit"?"

"We'ren't you listening to Prime back there? Or is there a bug in your processor? We weren't made for war. Before the insurrection, Cybertrons- the now outdated, afactional term- were made barely armored and, with few exceptions, unarmed. That changed after Megatron slew the first helpless millions. Even defense specialists like myself were inadequately equipped and had to be refitted or killed. I was one of the first and one of the few that kept my original name, thus I was still able to notice the discrepancies in the records."

"So no one has a clue how old anyone else is."

"No. This applies only to those created before the war started. Among the still-functional that includes myself, Optimus Prime, and at least one Decepticon I can think of. Obviously Megatron would have been in that category, as well as Jazz. Not that you'd ever suspect that from his behavior. But Prime is eldest. I am sure of it."

Will whistled in shock. "So only two of you were born in peacetime? That's probably the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Ironhide grunted assent. "Optimus should be approving missions of space exploration and feats of engineering, training his second, filling thousands of new protoforms with sparks, and getting cornered into reciting the History to the sparklings every cycle. Jazz and I should have armies' worth of protégées trained by now. Ratchet might still remember Iacon's dome while there were still pieces of it left, but he should still be carousing around the recreational facilities with 'bots his age instead of clanking around and fussing like an 'old codger.' Bumblebee was Sparked on a planet plated in a hot slag-shell of fallen ships, satellites, and mechs alike. He should have a proper mentor and be doing menial tasks instead of killing his own kind on an alien world. War makes everyone old…"

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When Spud asks for Ironhide, Ironhide I deliver. I was planning to anyway. Sorry if I tend to rant a little about the fall of Cybertron; it always struck me as a very tragic story within the Transformers epic. There's reasons and stuff too. I really need more sleep.

Ummm… Spick and Span! The steamer and vacuum duo that could destroy the evidence of model-building and carpet-cutting from my room. My carpet didn't fit so I cut it into Tetris blocks. Wing has all his body parts now. Still needs wings, beam rifles, and battery pack. I think I need to gut his chest and rewire the light in there.

Whine warning:

My feet are cold, my back hurts, and the dining hall chicken parm didn't agree with me. I'm grabbing some ginger ale and going to bed now. Good night.