Author's Note:

"Who's gonna fight for what's right
Who's gonna help us survive
We're in the fight of our lives
(And we're not ready to die)

Who's gonna fight for the weak
Who's gonna make 'em believe
I've got a hero (I've got a hero)
Livin' in me

I'm gonna fight for what's right
Today I'm speaking my mind
And if it kills me tonight
(I will be ready to die)

A hero's not afraid to give his life
A hero's gonna save me just in time"

Skillet_Hero


After a moment of stunned shock, Nightflier tried to hand the Matrix of Leadership to Smokescreen. The white mech jumped to his peds, backing away with hands raised.

"Nuh-uh! It's yours!"

Nightflier shook his head, extending it. "No, no, it's yours."

Smokescreen shook his head. "Don't even act like you didn't see that! You're the next Prime!"

"No I'm not!" he cried. He pushed it closer to Smokescreen again who backed up. "You're the next Prime! Optimus said so!"

"Well, obviously the Matrix has other ideas!" Smokescreen burst.

"But I'm not a Prime!" Nightflier cried. He held it out closer to Smokescreen, successfully making the mech bump into the wall behind him. "You're supposed to be the next Prime! Not me!"

"You SAW that light! You can't ignore it! The Matrix chose you!"

"But Optimus said YOU!"

"Oh see, NOW who's the scared one?"

Helpless, Nightflier looked back down on the sacred item he held in his hands. He gave a weak laugh, shaking his head. "No. No, that's not right. I'm not—I can't be Prime, it won't even fit in my chassis."

The second he said that, the Matrix's light flared again. He yelped when it snapped apart, transforming in his hands as it resituated itself in a miniature state, just small enough to fit in his chassis. He blinked. He looked up at Smokescreen. The mech held up his hands again.

"Don't look at me. That enough proof for you? It's you, Nightflier! It's you!"

His throat closed off. "But . . ." He stared down at the Matrix that waited patiently in his hands. His servos trembled. "I just . . . I don't even know what's going on! I don't even know the whole team, I don't know how to lead, I just . . . You think YOU'RE not qualified? Look at me!"

"I am," Smokescreen said. "Look, YOU were the one that was helping me when I was scared to be Prime. I was ready to turn it down!"

"And I'm not?"

Smokescreen waved his hands. "The point is, you knew exactly what to say, and that's definitely the mark of a Prime. Optimus ALWAYS knew what to say to bolster anyone's courage."

Nightflier's wings sagged. What could he do? Arguing about it with Smokescreen wasn't going to change anything. His servos tightened in fear on the Matrix. Could he do it? Be a . . . Prime?

He looked down on the Matrix, jaw ticking. So . . . it hadn't been by chance that the driller came that day. If the driller hadn't had attacked the Protectobot base, he wouldn't have been so far out, he wouldn't have scouted out the Decepticons, he wouldn't have joined up with the Autobots or went through their ground bridge or helped bring Optimus to the safety of this cave on the last leg of his health.

He closed his optics, breathing out a slow breath to steady himself. His wings perked up. Things like that weren't by chance. Nightflier didn't believe in luck. After managing to survive the slaughter of Kaon and landing at First Aid's peds, he didn't believe in luck—that was fate. And this was too.

He opened his optics, looking uncertainly at Smokescreen. "Do you really think I could be Prime?" he finally asked quietly.

Smokescreen nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely. After the speech you gave me—absolutely."

Nightflier looked back down at the Matrix, not knowing if he was just saying that to soothe his nerves or if he truly meant it. Not that it mattered in the long run. He had to become Prime. Fate was calling whether or not he liked it. Some things you just . . . had to buck up and do.

Taking a breath, Nightflier opened up his chassis. Though he was afraid, he closed his optics and fitted the Matrix of Leadership snugly inside, and the instant his spark made contact with it, it was like a bolt of energy ran straight through him from peds to wing tips. He arched, and lights flared, and his optics snapped open wide.

My new disciple. Younger, fresher, more vivacious than all the rest. You are the herald of a new age. You are an innocence born through a love that was faithful in spark. You will lead the Autobots with a youthful energy that brings light in darkness, hope in despair, and laughter in sorrow.

But . . . I'm—I'm not worthy. Surely there's someone better who can take up this mantle. I'm just a follower! Why me?

Because your spirit cannot be broken.

Very few in this life can bear the weight of being Prime. It is not a task asked of the faint-sparked. One must be faithful, fearless, and compassionate. You are these things. You are an advocate to the weak as you were once weak and knew their struggles.

But that's it exactly. I'm just . . . a street retro rat. I always have been. Begging for anything I needed, stealing what wasn't mine to survive, and scraping the bottom of the barrel. I'M the one you choose?

You are. The son of an honorable warrior and a faithful femme. You carry the curiosity in you to learn your position, and their honor and faith lives on through you. I do not make mistakes.

That's . . . still hard to believe, given me of all mechs.

This is not all I ask of you, my disciple.

It's not?

No. With the Matrix, you will have a communal relationship with the past Primes. They may guide you, teach you, but they cannot act for you. You are the sum of your experiences, and your choices a reflection of that sum. In that way, you are who you choose to become. And this is why I must ask the greatest sacrifice of you.

Which is?

To sacrifice yourself and give me what is left. I ask for your death.

My . . . my death? But—WHY? I thought I was supposed to be Prime! Why would you make a mech Prime only to kill him? What's the glory in that? Why ask us to sacrifice so much for you?

It is the hardest lesson to learn, and I may tell you no more than that. You may not have started this war, but you will be the one to end it. Take up this mantel, Nightflier, and fulfill your destiny. Rise, my disciple, and rescue your friends from Darkmount. With your death, you are now resurrected, and you shall be given a new name.

You shall be called Nightfall Prime.

With a gasp, Nightflier jerked and surfaced back to the land of the living. He shuddered in a breath, feeling chills running down his back. He looked up, and he saw Smokescreen staring at him.

"How long've I been out?"

Smokescreen blinked. "Um . . . I don't know, a second? You . . . haven't been out? What?"

Nightflier frowned. "But . . . I thought . . ." That conversation had definitely taken longer than a second.

Smokescreen blinked at him. "I thought you would . . . You know . . ." He gestured down at the shorter bot. "I thought Primes got new bodies? You know, upgrades?"

Nightflier glanced down at himself, seeing that absolutely nothing had changed about his body. He wrinkled his nose. "Couldn't have even made me a BIT taller . . . ?" He shook his head. "Look. We've got to get to Darkmount."

Smokescreen gaped. "Wh-What? Why? What's going on?"

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "I just . . . Something's going on. I think the Autobots are rebelling."

"Without Optimus?"

He shook his head. "I guess, I don't know. All I know is we've got to save them."

Smokescreen glanced back quickly. "But . . . What about Optimus?"

Nightflier looked back to the lifeless Prime. He swallowed and moved over, and he bent over, closing the Prime's chest plates. "He'll be safe down here," he said quietly. "If they haven't found us by now, they won't. Optimus and the Forge are safe down here." He looked up. "We'll worry about it later. Come on. We need to get moving."

Using the Phase Shifter and holding hands, Nightflier and Smokescreen made their way back up to the surface. "You go on ahead," Smokescreen said, looking out towards Darkmount looming in the distance. "I'll catch up."

Nightflier nodded, and he jumped and transformed. Pushing his thrusters, not knowing what he was going to find, Nightflier flew towards the Decepticon citadel. The time seemed to slowly tick by as it grew bigger and bigger in his sights, and then, he spotted silver and blue at the top of the citadel.

Megatron over a fallen Autobot. He soared higher and higher into the sky, the ground looming far away, and the cold of thin air and high altitudes crawled over his circuits, chilling his body. The cold numbed and settled a painful ache deep in his crippled wing, a wound long forgotten until the chill made it ache. How high WAS Darkmount? He couldn't even see the bots fighting below anymore, and clouds were his ground. Spark pulsing wildly, Nightflier threw himself into the fray without a second thought—well, lack thereof.

Transforming and pulling his shield and short sword, Nightflier landed on Megatron's shoulders. The great warlord reared up, but Nightflier jabbed his sword into his shoulder, ripping a jagged edge when he threw himself to the ground to avoid the claws reaching for him. Ducking and rolling between his legs, Nightflier turned back and lunged past him, slitting sensitive wires in his hip. Claws scratched the paint of his wings. Whirling around like a miniature storm, Nightflier delivered a roundhouse kick into Megatron's optic, thruster flaring and the heat burning. Megatron reared back with a roar and staggered away to gather his bearings.

Sheathing his sword and lifting his shield to block the bullets assaulting him, Nightflier whipped out his stun gun and quickly shot the three Vehicon troopers on the top of the building with him. A crash made him jump and point his gun towards Starscream, but the seeker was down for the count. He turned to help the other Autobot—and had to crane his head way back to see him.

Reflexively, he gave the commander a salute. "Sir."

The mech blinked down at him, impressed with his bearings to take on Megatron. Finally, he said, "I was expecting someone . . . larger in stature."

A little grin alighted Nightflier's face at the unintentional jibe at his size, something he had lived with all his life. He gave a slight shrug, "Aren't we all, sir." He glanced back when Megatron looked up at him, glaring with an optic that was glitching. He quickly turned back to the red and blue mech, fluttering his wings rapidly to try to keep a little heat and keep his aching wing warm. "Ah, so what are we doing?"

The commander's gaze settled grimly, probably a face he wore all the time. "It is paramount that we disable the fusion cannons below."

He instantly gave a salute to him, years of training ingrained in his processor. "On it, sir!" He ran and transformed, flying off just in time to hear an enraged roar. Gunfire raged around him, and Nightflier ducked and rolled, zipping away as well as he could at the volley of attacks.

Darkmount's twisted design gave him lots of little places to duck behind and fly around, a dizzyingly quick obstacle course in a cold and thin atmosphere. With every sharp vent Nightflier felt shards of icy cold air chilling his hot systems. Knowing his stun guns were too weak to really bother a mech of Megatron's size, Nightflier banked outward and zipped through a cloud of cover. He whirled around, beads of water clinging and freezing to his body as he transformed mid-air and fell back down. He landed lightly on Megatron's pursuing form before jumping off—and burning a small area of Megatron's back with his thrusters—and darting back through the cloud towards the top of the fortress. A massive ship circled below, ready to give aid should he need it.

Nightflier ducked through an opening that had been previously made, and he landed in the fusion cannon's power core room. Three Vehicons turned his way.

"Frag me flying—!"

Ducking behind his shield, Nightflier ricocheted several bullets and shot the one on his right, stunning him briefly as he launched his assault at the next two. Picking up and lashing out the whip that he hadn't used since his bout with the driller, Nightflier latched it around the neck of the first and yanked, sending the Vehicon crashing to the ground. Hooking the whip to his waist and drawing his sword, he jumped forward and engaged the first, ducking below a shot and stabbing up. The point of his blade gouged up into the helm of the Vehicon, killing it instantly before he turned around to the other. He grabbed his helm, locked the sharp edge of his sword against his neck, and he slit the mech's throat before running full throttle to the next.

He somersaulted above the shot of the last Vehicon, and he landed hard in front of him. Slamming his shield to the seeker's face, he stunned him with the electricity before jabbing his blade forward into his face. He had just pulled his sword back out and turned to the power core when he saw purple glaze his vision.

Megatron's shot collided nearly perfectly against his chassis. Nightflier felt the blast fling him back and he crashed into the wall with a cry. Gritting his dentures and falling on his hands and knees, he looked up, glaring at the warlord who landed in the room with him, a sneer on his faceplates.

"If you think you can stand against me, you are sorely mistaken, wretch," he spat at him. His jagged teeth glinted in the light, a sadistic smile curling his lips as he said, ignorant of his new title, "You are no Optimus Prime!"

Nightflier ground his jaw. Gripping his sword tightly, he staggered to his peds. The freezing temperatures combated with the burning scorch across his chassis, a shocking juxtaposition of cold against hot, despair against determination. He fanned his wings quickly, trying to ease the painful ache that throbbed in his weak wing. "Think I don't know that?" he spat back. His lip curled. "I don't need to beat you. I just need to compromise your little fortress' power core."

The warlord growled, puffs of hot air seeping from him. He drew his blade, and the screech of his sword grated ominously. "A mere trinket like yourself could never beat me. This place shall be your grave!"

Megatron surged forward, towering and massive, blade lifted high. Nightflier found his peds quickly, and he rolled away, the warlord's sword cutting through the thin air. For several wild seconds, he was put on a massive retreat as he tried to vainly stay alive beneath his assault. He was just small enough, just fast enough, that he could dodge the powerful blows and avoid the grappling claw.

He lifted his shield, blocking a blow he was too slow to avoid, and the force of Megatron's attack caused his arm to buckle in and shock up his entire arm. He tried to slip by again, but he felt his flight suddenly stopped short as Megatron got his hands on him.

Megatron's servo closed around the brace on his wing, and the breath whooshed out of him when he was stopped. A second later, Megatron whipped him around to impale him on his blade, but Nightflier felt the force at which he was swung snap the brace from its hold on his wing. With a crack and a break, Megatron's hand held nothing but the brace as Nightflier cried out in agony as his crippled wing was torn right back out of its socket, dangling by the top edge. He was inadvertently thrown across the room, and he was flung directly into the power core. The energies seized him, overloading everything. Nightflier screamed in pain, arched, electrocuted and circuits fried by the power whitening his optics and maxing out his audio receptors.

The energies cut off, overloaded and blown. Nightflier collapsed on the ground, twitching in agony and unable to flee as his wing was torn nastily from joint. Splintering pain flared with every movement as he sheathed his sword, trying to push off the ground with his empty hand.

A sharp kick to his gut sent him flying. He hit the ground, tumbling and skidding until he felt a ped and his crippled wing dangle off the edge of Darkmount. He coughed up energon. An enraged roar shook his audio receptors.

Nightflier's optics recalibrated, and he looked up to see Megatron prowling towards him, pure rage sizzling through every circuit of his body. Nightflier struggled to lift his shield, but it was weighty. He didn't have the strength. He tried to contact the other Autobots for help, but belated realized he was still on Protectobot lines, having never actually patched in to the line here on Earth. A weak moan spilled from his lips. What a stupid mistake. Any first cycle cadet knew to get on the same frequency as his allies.

He cried out when Megatron grabbed him by the throat, choking him as he shook him like a rag doll. "And what victory have you won at the price of your life?" Megatron taunted him with a deep snarl. "A momentary victory, only for Shockwave to repair my lasers?"

Nightflier reached up, pulling at the hand that suffocated him. What was the great point in taking out the lasers? He didn't know. He had done it because he had been ordered to. But he was Prime; he wasn't supposed to be ordered, was he? For a moment, all Nightflier felt was confusion, but that made way for panic when Megatron's hand grabbed his wing that dangled, held in place by one bolt.

He yanked so suddenly Nightflier didn't even have time to plead. His wing was ripped from its socket fully, and Nightflier spasmed with a cracking scream at the agony that poured into him. He jerked and seized in Megatron's grip, completely at his mercy as the warlord hoisted him high and tossed his wing over the edge.

"You're next," Megatron growled, fist tightening so much he almost broke his neck.

Energon pooled in Nightflier's mouth from a split lip plate. He spat a glob on Megatron's cheek to spite him. "Get recycled."

Megatron roared in fury, and Nightflier cried out when his grip shifted, digging into his back as he grabbed his other wing. There was a jerk, agony, and black.


Ultra Magnus caught the first wing that fell, almost unable to process what he was looking at. Then, fear blossomed in his chassis as his ship circled around. He was too late. Megatron was already tearing the seeker limb from limb.

"Autobots! Clear the area!"

He was this close to heading back inside his ship when he saw it—Megatron hurled two more pieces off the top of Darkmount, and instinctively, Ultra Magnus caught them as they fell.

One more wing and the tiny mech they belonged to.

Nightstalker gritted her dentures, backhanded by Shockwave one more time. She lassoed her whip, thinking maybe to get a shot at Shockwave to lock him down when the order from Ultra Magnus came. Immediately, Bumblebee, Arcee, and Cliffjumper made their way out, darting around Shockwave. Bulkhead and Wheeljack grappled with the Decepticon a moment more before Bumblebee ran right over him, distracting him. Nightstalker transformed and flew above, circled once, twice, and then Wheeljack duped the 'Con too, managing to weasel his way away as the blast rocked far above their heads, taking down the Decepticon fortress. Nightstalker followed them, aching horribly and ready to rendezvous with Ratchet.

Ultra Magnus dropped into his ship, and he deposited Nightflier as gently and quickly as he could without breaking stride. He immediately dropped into the pilot's seat as Darkmount rattled and broke apart around them, the air strike from the US serving its purpose well. Grabbing the controls, he instantly jerked the controls out of autopilot and swerved away from the collapsing fortress. A metal beam clipped the ship as he moved out of range of the obliterated Darkmount, and once out of range, he set the ship back on autopilot for the new base and turned to his unconscious passenger. Darkmount crashed to the ground with a thunderous clamor.

He knelt, lips pressing tightly at the sight of the dismemberment. He didn't touch the wounds that leaked all over the floor, afraid to make it worse. "Ratchet," he said over the comm. link, "give the children to someone else. Your medical assistance is required immediately."

Ultra Magnus picked up the wings, placing them to the side before turning back and sitting in the pilot's seat again. He coasted down to where the CMO awaited pick up, and the ship had barely landed before Ratchet had made his way inside. He froze at the sight of his patient awaiting him on the floor.

"By the All Spark . . ."

He dropped to his knees as Ultra Magnus took off again, servos hovering uncertainly over a new kind of wound he had never had to repair before. He couldn't do anything here. He needed a table to work at, he needed . . . He needed everything he'd lost in the destruction of the base and more. Finally, he touched his comm. link.

"Agent Fowler," he said, "how quickly can you arrange to replenish my medical supplies?"

There was a frustrated puff of air over the line. "Soon, I'm sure. The new base is stocked with what we could get on such a short notice, but . . . How soon are we talking?"

"Immediately, Agent Fowler," Ratchet stressed. He situated the small seeker better, and he turned his patient's face to the side, servos stilling at the sight of his face. "I have a mech dying on me right now."

"I'll get them to you pronto," he said sternly back. "I'll keep the line open for any other emergencies."

Satisfied as he could be with the answer, Ratchet looked up at Ultra Magnus. "Do you know who this is?" he asked him.

"I do not," Ultra Magnus replied. He glanced over his shoulder. "Do you?"

Ratchet shook his head. "No, he . . . He was an extra the team came back with from Cybertron, but . . ." He trailed off.

"But what?" Ultra Magnus pressed.

The medic shook his head again. "Nothing," he finally said. But he frowned more, feeling an uncomfortable chill run down his spine. "Just . . . chasing ghosts."

It was all in his mind. He was sure of it . . . Just chasing ghosts.

The second Ultra Magnus landed them outside of the new base, Ratchet scooped up the seeker. "Bring his wings," he told the commander, though he was absolutely sure that he had absolutely no idea what to do with them. He didn't even know if he could reattach them at this point. He hurried out of the spacious hangar, outside and across the way to the building labeled "E" as that would serve as the main area. Opening the doors and heading inside, flicking on the lights, he immediately spotted what would serve as his new medical bay.

Laying his patient on the table, Ratchet delved into what supplies were already there. When he found purchase with some cloths, he thanked the good Primus above and set to mopping up as much of the energon seeping out as he could. He heard Ultra Magnus's steps bring him inside.

"I need some water," Ratchet told him in a clipped tone. The footsteps were gone as quickly as they had come.

Venting to steady his hands and spark, Ratchet frowned at the strange wound. It wasn't like most dismemberments he had seen, gushing energon almost uncontrollably. The energon oozed, seeping like pus, and it only reminded him on how little time he had actually spent repairing seekers. Yes, there were the Aerialbots of long ago and the rare jet, but pure seeker? He comforted himself with the thought that his structure couldn't be that different, but he realized that he had never prepared himself for a seeker grounded because his wings were ripped off. It was a new kind of injury. He had never thought he would have to contend with something like this.

His servos carefully began removing back plates to clear the area for his work. As he did, his brows slowly darkened. He removed all of his back plating, but the trauma was centered mainly on where the right wing would attach.

Ratchet stared at his black protoform. Near the joints where his right wing would attach, there was . . . nothing. No protoform. Just a grisly old wound healed almost improperly—clearly, someone had cut much of the protoform out, a surgical procedure that had Ratchet wincing on the inside. But he could see that on the protoform that remained, there were telltale signs of deep scarring from 3rd degree burns. The sight of his back strut would make people cringe, and knowing that the metal in his back didn't have protoform to protect it made the cogs in Ratchet's mind churn. The grating had to be a discomfort. He probably had to regularly lubricate the metal so he wouldn't rust. If he got cold, it had to give him a severe ache.

Even more alarming was the difference between where the left wing and the right wing would attach. The left wing was a raw, fresh wound. The right was different, tampered with and a little abnormal. The screws were rattled, nearly pulled free when his right wing had been pulled off again. It was clear to even Ratchet that extensive surgery had been improvised upon his wing. He had been a cripple before, and judging by the screws and bolts that had held his wing to him previously—not his biomechanical, original bolts—someone had forced his wing back on.

His processor nearly grinded to a halt. A seeker's wings were highly sensitive, evidence he had experienced firsthand when repairing Nightstalker. That his biomechanisms had actually been able to accept the non-biomechanical parts into his body was processor boggling. To do that, he wouldn't have been able to shut off his pain receptors. If he did, the medic would have had to do a full reset to his sensory net to reboot him, and that would cause his body to reject the non-biomechanical parts. But if he left his receptors off, he wouldn't be able to feel the wing at all when it had been forcibly attached.

The pain of doing that to any body part, much less something as sensitive as seeker wings, left Ratchet's processor reeling. This mech had to have a will of steel, and whoever had repaired him was gutsy and innovative.

He jerked back to the matter at hand when he heard Ultra Magnus's steps coming back. He turned and snatched the bucket of water from him without a word, lips pressing mulishly as he poured some water over the seeker's back. It washed over him and cleared the energon, and he found the culprits that were bleeding so much of his energon. Four deep holes, presumably where claws had dug into him—when Megatron had ripped off his other wing. Ratchet swore under his breath.

"Agent Fowler, I need something to stitch him up! Ah . . ." His processor scrambled a minute as he struggled to think of something that humans had that could possibly work for Cybertronian sized stitches. He snapped his fingers. "Electrical wiring. That will work. But for Primus's sake, remove the electrical wiring from the rubber! I don't need to accidentally shock him!"

Taking the cloth, he pressed it to the bleeding wounds just as the sound of a small jet engine filled the air and a transformation. "Ratchet? What's wrong?"

"Perfect timing, Nightstalker," he said without looking at her. "Come here—"

She screamed. A horrible scream that raked across his audios, panicked and scared. "I know!" he snapped. He jerked his head. "Get over here! I need your hands!"

"Oh Primus, Ratchet—his WINGS!"

"I know!" he burst for what felt like the thousandth time. "Get over here NOW!"

She ran to his side, wings fluttering and face awash in horror at the thought of what losing her wings would mean. Ratchet pointed his finger. "See these bolts? Here, here, and here," and he pointed to them all. "I need you to pull those out."

Her lips shook. "I—I—What?"

"Just do it, Nightstalker," he stressed, trying his best not to snap at her because he knew it would only make her even more nervous. "They're not his biomechanical bolts. If I leave them in, it'll only beget infection, and my hands are too big to reach in there." He didn't know where his proper tools were. He was sure most of them were here, but he didn't have the time to try to look.

Nightstalker vented audibly to try and control her panic as she reached into his back, pulling at the first bolt that had already become wet with oozing energon. Ratchet wiped it again as she pulled.

He vented in irritation. "Now's not the time to be gentle, Nightstalker, yank if you have to."

"But won't that hurt him—"

"He's completely unconscious," Ratchet interrupted brusquely, "and if yanking it out does damage the sockets some, so be it, but if he gets an infection on top of this dismemberment, I'm certain I'll lose him. Now PULL."


Put me to sleep, evil angel . . .

Open your wings, evil angel . . .

Fly over me, evil angel . . .

Take me from this misery . . . I surrender . . .

The ground bridge blasted open. He almost thought the Autobots had forgotten him. Maybe the Decepticons had finally corrected their oversight about the Harbinger. As it turned out, he just ended up getting looked in the face by Bumblebee. He screwed his optics shut defiantly, pleading to Primus, to Unicron, to God, to angels, anything that would listen to smite his life on the spot.

But he knew that was useless. Ratchet's work was done well. He would survive. As much as he hated it, he was going to make it. He could feel his strength returning.

He heard Bumblebee twitter nervously and strong hands grab his shoulders, much too big to be Bumblebee's. "All right, up you go. Ratchet wants you moved to his laboratory."

Dreadwing opened his optics when he was shoved none-too-gently to a sitting position. He hissed at the pain from the sudden movement, and Bumblebee leapt to his side to support him. He jerked at the scout's touch, half torn between attacking the mech or resisting his touch. Instead, realizing that no matter what he did the Autobots would have their way, he stood shakily to his peds for the first time since Megatron had shot him with his own weapon.

Ultra Magnus all but hauled him through the ground bridge. Dreadwing tried to keep his peds beneath him as Bumblebee's vocals whirred uncertainly behind him. He gritted his dentures, keeping his helm held low they couldn't see his face. When Ultra Magnus pushed him towards the other empty table, Dreadwing's head suddenly lifted, attention drawn and caught by Nightstalker and Ratchet, the latter supervising the former stitching up a tiny seeker.

His spark jolted. His in cycles thinned in shock, and his optics widened. He knew him with one glance—he would never forget. He took a step towards him. "Nightflier . . ."

Ultra Magnus yanked him back when he tried to get close, and Dreadwing growled sharply, turning on the Autobot that dared hold him back. "Let go of me!" he snarled at the commander. His free hand curled for the attack. "That's my son!"

All activity in the base stopped. Nightstalker blinked down at her hands covered in his energon where she was stitching him up. "I do not care who he is," Ultra Magnus said evenly, brows darkening at Dreadwing's aggression. "No one will be disturbing their work. You will hold your place."

"I will not!" Dreadwing bellowed, spark stretching thin and agony flaring up. He yanked against the commander's grip. "You would deny me my own son—my—my son . . ." His vocals choked on emotion as he turned to look at Nightflier completely unconscious. At the sight of his dismemberment, Dreadwing felt his knees weaken, and he collapsed into a sitting position on the berth next to him. He stared in wonder, spark sputtering with painful hope and fingers twitching with the urge to stroke his cheek. Though he relented and sat, Ultra Magnus did not move away.

Despite being in the middle of a procedure, Nightstalker turned to Dreadwing, servos frozen and wetted with his energon. "What?" she finally managed to say.

His optics caught with her, and wordlessly the truth was told to her. She dropped the needle, turning back around and blinking uncomprehendingly at Nightflier unconscious on Ratchet's operating table. "W-What?"

"That's not all he is," Smokescreen said. All the bots turned towards him. He squirmed a little under the intensity of everyone's gaze, and he felt his spark and stomach hit his peds.

"He's our new Prime."