Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All unrecognizable ones are the intellectual property of yours truly; their theft is punishable by severe voodoo-induced pain in any and all sensitive organs of the body, followed by eternal damnation.

Because, you know, stealing is wrong.

Title: Juxtaposition

Summary: Transformers AU. She saved his life... and did not even know it. A series of unrelated events results in an earth-shattering meeting between species, cultures, and minds that is merely the beginning of so very much more.

Rating: T

Warnings: mild cursing

Author Notes: Okay, the deadline for voting at Metellus Cursor has been extended to the fifteenth! Please don't forget to vote. Right now we have an average of fourteen votes per story, and there are seventy-four group members! D:

Oh, lots of new fanart links (I'm finally caught up! :happy dance:) and links for the Geek-To-English Dictionary (art by Cafei, definitions by me, insanity by both X3) are up in my profile now. Be sure to pay them all a visit!

We're taking a hop and a skip out of Evelyn's point of view for this chapter, because (simply put) there is so much that she does not know is going on. So, here we have a little section for every Metellus officer. Enjoy!

Transformers: Juxtaposition

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Point of View Gun conveniently does precisely what its name suggests. That is if you point it at someone and pull the trigger, they instantly see things from your point of view. It was designed by Deep Thought, but commissioned by a consortium of intergalactic angry housewives, who after countless arguments with their husbands were sick to the teeth of ending those arguments with the phrase "You just don't get it, do you?"
- The Book about the Point of View Gun, The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy
Bumblebee was nearly through with his much-shortened break time, working his way through his third cube of energon, when he felt something tapping on his leg.

"Bumblebee?" The little organic femme, Evelyn, peered up at him.

The minibot stared in surprise before smiling. "Evy! You decided to come after all?"

She made the odd little hiccupping sound that he had learned was her version of laughter. "Not much choice. Sunstreaker's in the 'bay, and Ratchet said he needed 'distance' to test something. Wheeljack dropped us off. It's not much of a party, though."

The rec room was much quieter than normal, a mere handful of mechs sitting around refueling. Most of the tables were empty, and the conversations quiet and stilted.

Bumblebee rumbled ruefully. "Yeah. There was a bit of action earlier, but we're working double-shifts and half-breaks to get everything back in shape."

"Oh." She looked from him to the table and back again. "Ah, little help?"

The minibot grinned and lifted her obligingly to the tabletop. He took extra care with where and how he gripped, too; the Metellus sitrep uplink had included a message from Ratchet that basically melted down to 'She's damaged. I'm fritzed. Be gentle or suffer the consequences.'

Bumblebee wondered if the femme had any idea just how many of the sitrep messages had revolved around her since she came onboard.

"I didn't know Sunstreaker had been that badly damaged," he said after she had settled herself on the table across from him.

"Not damaged. Ratchet had some sort of inspiration and called him down."

"Huh. Must've been something really interesting for him to take on another project with all the repairs. Of course, he and Prowl are masters of multitasking."

The rec room doors slid open and admitted a pair of mechs, one silver and one a dark orange. Bumblebee's eyes sought out the red Face of Primus sigil upon their chests, an automatic action, but the dark orange one was already heading toward the minibot's table, his silver companion following belatedly in his wake. As they drew nearer, Bumblebee realized that the orange mech was looking at Evelyn.

Bumblebee smiled in welcome as they drew to a halt nearby, looming over him.

"Hello. What brings you here?"

The dark orange mech twitched slightly, pulling his gaze away from an uncomfortable-looking Evelyn.

"Huh? Oh. Your CMO kicked us out."

The yellow minibot could not help a small chuckle. "What?"

"We're on prisoner transport detail," said the other, glowering around at everything and nothing. "One of the 'Cons needed basic repairs before transport, so we were supposed to escort him to and from your repair bay. We got him there, and your CMO kicked us out. One of your guys pointed us here."

"Ah. Ratchet doesn't like healthy mechs in his 'bay," said Bumblebee with another chuckle.

"Didn't expect that you'd have the alien in here, though," said the dark orange mech, peering at Evelyn once more. The femme muttered something that Bumblebee did not quite catch, but the displeased tone carried very well to his audio receptors. "We've heard about it from the others."

"Er, yes." Bumblebee could not completely hide a small frown. "This is Evelyn. She's a human from a place called Earth." Evelyn regarded the two strange mechs warily, and Bumblebee hurried to make introductions, "Evelyn, this is..."

He trailed off, looking at the Teyonu mechs questioningly.

"Binary," said the silver mech. He nodded at his companion. "And Driveline."

"Binary and Driveline," repeated the minibot.

"Pleased to meet you," said the femme.

"Does it really remember names?" asked the orange mech, leaning close to the organic and nudging lightly at her with one finger. She rocked away from the touch, but he seemed to pay no mind.

"Excuse me." The femme scooted away from the mech's fingers.

"How long did it take you to teach it to talk?" Driveline peered down at the little creature, intrigued, and he reached to nudge at one of her arms. "And what's the stuff it's wrapped in?"

"Aw, c'mon. Just leave her alone," said Bumblebee. "She's had a tough enough time, what with the 'Cons and all."

The mech ignored him, and Evelyn slapped at the probing fingers and rose to her feet, stalking toward Bumblebee's side of the table, rubbing at her head and muttering under her breath. Before she could take more than a few steps, Driveline scooped her up.

Evelyn's loud, indignant squawk mingled and jumbled with Bumblebee's cry of "Hey!" as the minibot scrambled to his feet.

"Looks a lot like a mech, doesn't it?" said Driveline, addressing Binary, who shifted uncomfortably. "Even has five fingers on each hand. Wonder where its fuel tank is..."

"Does this look like a petting zoo?" cried the femme, squirming in his grip. "Let go!"

"Driveline, just put it down," said Binary, optics roving over the rest of the room. Bumblebee wondered if either of the pair knew exactly how many mechs' absolute attention they had right now. It was not the friendly kind of attention either, more the 'to shoot or not to shoot' attention.

At least Sunstreaker isn't in here, he thought to himself and cringed at the resultant mental image. "Driveline, please, just leave her alone."

Evelyn dangled well out of reach of Bumblebee's arms.

Some days I hate being short, thought the minibot unhappily.

:Okay over there, 'Bee?: inquired Hound from over by the energon dispenser.

:Ask Evelyn,: replied the minibot, processor running through possible scenarios to get the Teyonu mech to release the little organic.

:You are a commissioned officer,: said the scout pointedly. :And this is your unit's ship.:

Bumblebee repressed a grimace.

:I don't think he'll see it that way,: he replied, and then added privately to himself, I can't even get the other minis to listen to me without a fight.

Backup arrived in the form of a soot-smeared Bluestreak fresh off repair duty.

"Hey! How would you like it if a Supreme scooped you up and swung you all around?" Wing-panels twitching with agitation, the gunner strode up to the larger mech and reached around, grasping Driveline's wrist and twisting in a way that Bumblebee recognized as a standard movement to disarm one's opponent, his other hand quickly sweeping Evelyn away from the Teyonu mech. "You should be grateful Ratchet doesn't ever come in here! He'd rebuild you as a grease gun for sure! Or worse!"

Driveline stared down at his empty hand for a moment before glowering at Bluestreak. "I wasn't hurting it. Primus, you'd think I was ripping it apart!"

"Driveline, maybe it's time to pick up the 'Con." Unlike his companion, Binary was well aware of the chilly atmosphere in the rec room.

"The CMO said he'd comm—"

"Driveline, we should go." Binary grasped Driveline's shoulder-strut and pulled, and the dark orange mech seemed to suddenly notice the narrow-optic gazes of the few other mechs scattered through the room.

"Oh, fine," he muttered, following sulkily at Binary heels. There was a moment of stillness after they exited before everyone returned to their drinks.

"Thank you, Bluestreak," said Evelyn.

Bluestreak rumbled at her and set her lightly atop the table.

"Are you okay? You didn't look too happy, but neither did most anyone else, huh? Not everyone has Ratchet to keep them in line, I guess. But that disarming technique worked! I've never used it with anyone but Prowl, and he always expects it, you know, during sparring. I must have done something right, though, huh?"

"I'm glad," said the femme. "I'm certainly not going to complain about Sunstreaker being grabby again. At least he doesn't call me 'it'." She frowned, then added grumpily, "... much."

All appearances to the contrary, Jazz was very much aware of the situation at the other end of the rec room, and if his observations were correct (which they usually were), so was the majority of the Metellus-based Autobots present in the room. He could practically feel the tension draining from the air as the two Teyonu mechs exited.

He also noticed when the door nicked Driveline's heel on his way out.

His grin widened.

Our own little mascot, he mused. Who'd have thought?

The bulky green form of another mech loomed up beside him.

"Heya, Hound."

"You know what's going on, don't you?" The scout slid into the seat next to the saboteur.

"What're ya on about?"

"This." Hound tilted his head, seeming to indicate nothing and everything at the same time. "Every capable mech working double-time. The colony mechs are practically leaving contrails behind them from racing back and forth."

The black and white mech snickered.

"Jazz..."Hound frowned at him. "Seems to me that we're in a rush to leave, and Metellus still isn't fully repaired; Optimus would never allow that without reason."

"Ah, true enough." His grin faded, and he lowered his voice. "You remember when th' 'Con got out o' his cell?"

The scout's systems grumbled in displeasure. "Hard to forget."

"He got a message out. We've been tryin' t' decode it."

Hound's optics narrowed, and he lowered his own voice. "I take it you managed."

"Yeah. 'Bee got it half an orn back or so."

"Classified?"

"Nah, nothin' like that, just... keepin' it quiet." He turned his head, glancing toward the corner table where the little organic femme was speaking with Bluestreak.

There was a short pause.

"Bad?"

"... troublin'." Jazz took a sip of his energon, checking his chronometer. Less than a breem until he was due to join the repair crews working on Metellus' damaged hull and innards. "Nothin' against th' Autobots, technically."

"Technically."

"Well, it certainly wasn't a 'Hi, how're ya doin'?' call. He sent out coordinates an' a planet-resource report for Earth."

A pause.

"Oh," Hound murmured, staring down into the depths of his energon cube. Then, "... Primus."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"All this to keep them away from there, too. Does Optimus have a plan?"

"So far? Get her home, get Sideswipe back where he belongs, and head t' th' Hub t' take it before th' Council."

"What are the chances of a protection order, you think?"

Jazz made a noise of disgust.

"You know what th' Council's like," he said. "Everythin' calculated. Calculated gain... calculated loss."

Bluestreak's voice came sharply across the comm channel. :Jazz!:

"... a calculated... loss?"

Jazz felt as though several of his primary circuits had fused upon hearing the soft, high-pitched voice from behind him, and Hound's wide optics clearly stated that he felt the same. The black and white mech turned to see Evelyn cupped in Bluestreak's hands, and the expression upon the femme's face was enough to send guilt surging through his processor.

:I'm sorry!: commed Bluestreak, distressed. :I'm so sorry! 'Bee had to go back on shift, and she wanted to talk to you two. I didn't know—:

:S'alright, Blue,: soothed Jazz.

"You're..." The little femme's strange optics, normally roving here, there, and everywhere to take in her surroundings, were perfectly still, fixed upon his faceplate. "You're going to let the Decepticons... destroy Earth?"

"Is this really necessary?"

Red Alert continued his careful examination of the crate's contents, optics narrowed as his systems let out an annoyed rev he made no attempt to muffle.

"It is standard security procedure," he replied to the green and gray mech standing beside the crate-laden hover-platform.

"Well, I know that," replied the other, then added in an undertone, "I've just never seen standard security procedure performed molecule by molecule before."

Red Alert ceased his work long enough to bestow an especially displeased glower upon the Teyonu mech.

Pausing momentarily as he was passing by, Hoist rumbled nervously. "Er, Backlog, why don't you head back for another crate? Just... leave him to it."

"That sounds—"

"Standard security procedure," interrupted Red Alert, "states that the one responsible for transporting the cargo container onboard remain here until the security check is completed."

Red Alert's audio sensors caught what might have been a mutinous mutter of 'Primus slaggit', but the security officer had turned back to his task, sorting through the containers in the last crate one-by-one. It was all very unorganized, miscellaneous wires and tubes, alloy cubes to be melted and formed into panels or parts as needed. His scanners covered each item, searching for anything out-of-place, be it an energy signature or a chemical reading.

"What is this?" he asked, pulling out one of the smaller containers, filled with bits and pieces that made no sense to him: shaped metal, but made of alloys far too weak to have any proper use; several small stones polished to bright sheens; lengths of woven material; and many other things.

"Oh." Backlog peered at the odd assortment of items. "Some Laakii ships passed by several orns back and wanted to trade for fuel. They were desperate, but this was all they could trade."

"You gave energon for... trinkets?"

"Wavelength wanted to help them. We couldn't give them much with the mine output so low, but they got enough to make it to the next installation."

Red Alert nudged at one of the metal ornaments. "Am I to understand that this is an attempt to make up for the pathetically small amount of energon you've given us?"

"Wavelength's giving you all he can," retorted the green and gray mech indignantly. "We'll need enough for ourselves to evacuate when the mines give out, you know."

That caught Red Alert's attention. "So soon?"

"The science team estimates less than a vorn," said Backlog grimly. "Much less. Be grateful we had any energon to spare at all. That—" He nodded at the box of trinkets. "—is a gift from Wavelength, just in case you come across someone who'll give something more useful for them."

Red Alert began returning the various items to the crate. "No species fool enough to give energon for such useless things will have discovered space travel."

The other mech snickered, paused, and sent the security officer a not-quite-insulted look, but Red Alert was moving down the line to the next hover-platform, and Hoist was suddenly there again, directing Backlog on where to deposit his cargo amongst the growing stacks in the storage bay.

:Prowler...:

There were few mechs who could convey warmth, sneakiness, worry, sheepishness, and any number of other things in just one word. Jazz was one of those mechs.

Seated in his office, looking over mounds of datapads that obscured the top of his desk from sight, Prowl rumbled quietly to himself in irritation.

:Is this important, Jazz?:

:Er, kinda',: replied the other. The messages came over a private channel, and Prowl wondered what the saboteur had gotten himself into that he did not wish the other officers to hear. :Sorta'. I think it is, anyway. Cat's outta' th' bag, man.:

Prowl paused, frown deepening. He very deliberately added another line of notes to the current datapad before speaking.

:Explain.:

:I had a little glitch o' th' vocalizer in th' rec room,: said the saboteur, and there was the source of the sheepishness. :Evelyn knows.:

It was very little information to go on, but Prowl's creator had gifted him with one of the fastest, most efficient processing systems known to Cybertronians. He opened a comm channel to Optimus Prime and relayed the information. The commander was surprised and not a little troubled at the news.

:She was not pleased, I take it,: said Prowl to Jazz, obligingly using the private channel.

:Let's just say ya can really tell she's been hangin' around th' Hatchet. Bluestreak's takin' her back t' th' 'bay.:

:Have you informed Ratchet that you've been terrorizing his guest?:

A sharp, garbled mix of mechanical noise filtered down the link; it translated roughly to 'hah!'

Prowl added another line of notes, sending a comm to Hoist that the latest inventory reports for basic Supreme-type repair parts matched the request list sent to Teyonu 8; he received an acknowledgement and shifted one of the many datapads stacked upon his desk to a smaller pile. On the officers' channel, Optimus asked for his opinion about the possibility of a protection order for Earth, and he calculated the possibilities.

:Very well, Jazz. Consider it noted. I've informed Optimus.:

:Thanks, Prowler. Didja' tell Ratchet?:

:And deprive you of that pleasure?: Prowl allowed himself a small smile as he sent his conclusions to Optimus. :Why would I do that?:

:Aw, c'mon...:

Ratchet's signature abruptly registered as active on the officers' comm channel.

:And here's the sharkticon himself,: sent Prowl privately to Jazz.

:All right. I'm done with the work on the last Decepticon,: said the medic. :They're taking him to meet Ironhide at the shuttle-bay.:

:Already here, Ratch,: came Ironhide's gruff rumble. :Him an' th' rest o' th' 'Cons. They'll be off-ship in less'n a breem.:

:Noted,: said Prowl. :What about the supply transfer?:

:On schedule,: replied Red Alert crisply. :Nothing suspicious to report so far.:

:Just had the last of the repair parts delivered, too,: said Ratchet. :Replacements for the lab haven't shown up yet, though.:

:Clearing them now,: said Red Alert.

Prowl made another note on the datapad before picking up another and beginning the processor-warming exercise that was shift schedules. It would take quite a bit of rearranging to keep everything running with so many wounded callbacks waiting for Ratchet to repair them.

Just until Wheeljack is repaired, he told himself. And Grapple and Hoist are assisting with the basics. We'll manage.

A mangled burst of static sizzled over the officer comm channel, the unique electronic sound of sheer fury. Prowl frowned, gazing beyond his surroundings as he traced the signal.

Speaking of Ratchet...

:Jazz!: barked the medic. :What did you do?!:

Ironhide watched as the group of Teyonu-based mechs escorted the last of the Decepticon prisoners onto the shuttle. His attention was devoted to the hostile mechs, every movement, every flux in their energy levels, but that did not keep him from noticing the very familiar scuff marks marring the heels of one dark orange security mech.

'Nipping' was Metellus' preferred way of showing his irritation or displeasure. Those who lived aboard the sparked ship might occasionally forget that Metellus Cursor was as alive and aware as they, but they remembered quickly when, for whatever reason, the doors began to glitch and the lifts to stick and the energon dispensers to clog for whatever unfortunate mech had offended the ship.

The security officer wondered what exactly had transpired to place the Teyonu mech in the ship's bad graces, and he made a mental note to ask Jazz.

The shuttle's loading ramp began to close, and Ironhide waved Brawn and Windcharger out of the hanger. Decompression was no real danger for a mech, but being sucked into empty space would be a waste of time and resources.

He followed behind the two minibots, the airlock sealing behind them.

"Ahrnhide ta bridge. Shuttle is ready fer departure."

Optimus' familiar rumble seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once."Bridge here. Shuttle is away. Next arrival estimated in one-point-three-five joors."

"Noted. Ahrnhide out."

Brawn and Windcharger fell into step behind the larger mech as he made his way to the lifts.

"I don't suppose we're lucky enough to be scheduled for a break now?" murmured Windcharger plaintively to his fellow minibot.

"Aw, don't be such a stiff joint. Work is good for you," replied Brawn heartily, systems rumbling. "Keeps your servos limber!"

"And your fuel-tank low," muttered Windcharger.

"Th' assignments list has us slotted fer repairs in th' beta-12 corridor," said Ironhide, rounding the last corner to the lifts. Ahead, one of the doors opened obligingly. "Grapple sez it ain't pretty, neither."

"Isn't that where Prowl's unit fought?" asked the red minibot as the trio entered the lift.

Ironhide grunted an affirmative. The door closed, and all three mechs swayed as the floor shifted beneath them. Moments later, they exited into another corridor, and Ironhide led the way down two more corridors toward the central chamber that housed Metellus' spark.

Turning the final corner, Ironhide felt his systems surge at the sight that greeted him in the scorched and battered corridor.

Frozen grotesquely, face locked in a grimace and the sections of once-living metal of its frame already faded to gray, the corpse of a Decepticon phase-capable hung where a lucky shot had caught it as it attempted a surprise attack through the corridor wall. A phase-generator could let matter pass through matter; energy bolts were an entirely different matter.

Ironhide's lips pressed together in a grim frown. An unsteady rev from one of the minibot's systems echoed through the still corridor.

"I think I'm going to purge," murmured Windcharger.

The red security mech's systems vented in a loud huff, and he retrieved a laser-cutter from his subspace storage.

"C'mon, ya two. Faster started, faster done."

And he set to work.

"Of course I knew." Ratchet frowned down at the little femme seated in her berth in the corner of his office. He was briefly grateful that he had offlined Sunstreaker to conduct the spark-readings he had needed; the yellow mech was unpredictable, yes, but it was fairly obvious that an upset Evelyn equaled stressed Sideswipe equaled edgy Sunstreaker equaled even more things for Ratchet to repair. "All the officers did."

"And you didn't tell me." Her arms were folded tightly over her chest, the planes of her face drawn into a glower to match his own.

"Why would we?"

"My planet? My family? I would think it's obvious I would want to know!"

"To what end?" he asked. "If you had known, what could you have done?"

She sputtered briefly like a badly tuned engine before rallying a reply: "You still should have told me!"

"You would have worried, and there was nothing for you to do that would change anything. Now you will suffer excess stress and fear and possibly damage your systems from something you can do nothing about."

Her frame trembled, her optics narrowing further. "That doesn't change that it's something I should know!"

"See? Already, you're afraid."

"I am not!" she snapped, and then her optics widened and her ventilation cycle hitched.

Ratchet's frown deepened.

"Of course you aren't," he muttered.

"I'm not... afraid." She shook her head, and her face scrunched in a way that made him suspect she was speaking with Sideswipe. "Oh, God, I'm not afraid."

"You've said that."

"Furious," she murmured softly. "Upset. Not afraid." Her breathing glitched again, and she looked up at him with wide optics. "Ratchet, I think there's something wrong with me."

The femme's features were twisted with distress, and Ratchet automatically ran the standard scans: heart rate, breathing rate, temperature... All readings were slightly higher than normal, but there was nothing that her agitated state could not account for, and he told her so.

The organic made a strangled sound that Ratchet interpreted (with some surprise) as sheer fury.

"How long have I been here?" she demanded. "Months, certainly. More? A year? Ratchet, I should be out of my mind, and here I am, doing what? Socializing! Making 'play-dates' with giant alien robots!"

Mechs, he thought, clamping down on the automatic urge to correct her. He regarded her silently, optics narrowed, and waited for her to continue, curious as to where this was going.

She rubbed at the top of her head, fingers running with difficulty through the thick mass of organic fluff sprouting there.

"I don't know how I can make you understand," she breathed, optics shuttered tightly.

"Try," he said, not entirely able to mask the irritated drawl coloring his tone.

A moment of silence, then...

"Mothers. Mechs don't have mothers, do they?"

"We have creators. Designers and engineers."

"I have parents. A father and a mother."

"DNA exchange," said Ratchet. "A giver and a receiver. I don't understand your dilemma. You merely have a set of two creators instead of one or more."

"They'remore than that!" she cried, shaking her head furiously. "More! So much more! Always there, from day one, teaching me to walk and talk, holding me when I cried, feeding me when I was hungry, comforting me when I was sick. They were there every day!" Her voice wavered oddly on the last sentence. "And Dick and Lizzy. Brothers and sisters... maybe you'd understand that better. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They... love each other, don't they?"

There was another pause, during which the femme's face scrunched up in that unique expression that meant she was communicating with Sideswipe, and Ratchet jerked slightly in surprise when she suddenly snapped, "Of course not like that, you twit! God help me, why did I ever let you watch TV at all?"

"Do you have a point?"

"Yes, damn it!" All her attention returned to him with a near-palpable snap. She ignored his glare and continued, "I should be frantic. I should be terrified. I've never gone more than a month without speaking with my parents. They're old. Something horrible could have happened. Lizzy was talking about having another child. What if she's pregnant? What about Dick? He could be married, or there could have been an accident. They could all be dead, and now I learn that my entire planet could be the next target for an army of giant aliens to fuel their war, and...

"And I... I should be afraid. But I'm not."

Ratchet felt the first stirrings of unease. The expression upon the little femme's face was not one with which he was familiar; it was almost... blank.

"I have to concentrate to feel homesick... to feel afraid," she murmured. "And that should terrify me."

She released her breath in a gusty sigh and drooped down into a seated position, legs folding in ways that made Ratchet's joints ache, and buried her face in her hands.

"Damn headaches," she muttered.

Encountering Ratchet's darkest gimlet glare upon entering the medbay was clear indication of the little human femme's current status. Optimus tilted his head ever-so-slightly, and frowning, the medic gestured to his dimly-lit office. The Prime nodded –understanding and thanks in one gesture– and strode toward the open doorway.

His servos ached as he saw the odd little ball the organic had curled herself into, knees nearly touching her shoulders, arms around her calves, and chin atop her knees. She glanced toward him, and she seemed almost to shrink in upon herself further before uncurling (now tucking her legs beneath her in what had to be a painful position).

"Hello," she said quietly.

"Hello."

There was a brief pause during which Optimus was fairly certain he heard Ratchet's engine rev moodily.

"I apologize," he said at last. "We should have informed you when we learned of the threat to your planet, but we did not wish to further stress you." He could not keep a slight hint of amusement from showing through his voice as he added, "Ratchet has been quite adamant that we avoid that as much as possible."

"Are you going to stop them?"

His processor came up with no ready way to interpret that. "I don't understand."

"The Decepticons," she said, rubbing at the odd, pale markings covering her arm. "Are you going to stop them from... taking Earth?"

"We will report to the Autobot Council after we return you to your planet. It will be up to them to decide whether to place Earth under a protection ordinance."

"How would you convince them to do that?"

His systems vented softly. "Normally, they would negotiate terms with leaders of that planet, but Jazz tells us that your planet is not familiar with interstellar races. We will have to try to convince the Council that leaving your planet to the Decepticons would be detrimental to the Autobot cause."

She nodded, seeming to look far past him, beyond anything in the room. "Will that work?"

"Prowl believes so."

Another nod, but no other reply.

"Evelyn." He waited until she looked up and met his optics. "I am sorry that any of this ever happened, and I will do everything in my power to help. This is our war. You should never have been involved."

"... thank you."

End Chapter Twenty-Four

Sitrep - (military slang) situation report