Rated: M for adult themes: language, violence, mental rape, character death, mech erotica, torture, gore, and suicidal ideation. This varies from chapter to chapter, so read at your own risk.

Important Note: I started this series of fics before Revenge of the Fallen hit the theaters. This is an AU 2007 movie verse fic, NOT a ROTF/DOTM/AE/LK/BB fic.

Disclaimer: The only thing I own in this work of complete fiction is Velocity/Sira and Hardcore. They are mine. Everything else is copyrighted and owned by some really rich people. I make no money from this, but I wish I could.

XxxX

Morals and Laws

XxxX

"Ratchet," creaked a weak voice.

The CMO straightened, relief flooded through his spark. Smooth, cautious movements hid the excitement threatening to explode from his vocals as he turned off his welder, and carefully set it aside. Slowly, turning around, he faced the Prime, his facial plates into a soft smile. "Well, look who decided to drag his lazy aft out of the Matrix. Did you enjoy your vacation?"

Pale optics flickered from underneath barely open shutters. The Prime blinked once before he spoke, his words a whispered sigh, "Velocity, how…?"

Ratchet used his frame to block Optimus's view of his mate. The Prime might be a battle-hardened warrior, but no one liked seeing their loved ones laid open for repairs. "In a few days, she will be back to tormenting you and everyone else," the medic chided. A lie, but a small one.

The Prime painfully cycled before he spoke again. "You forced her into stasis?"

The machines keeping Optimus functioning hummed and beeped. Background nose to fill the astroseconds, it took the medic to decide how to answer his leader. "Yes," Ratchet finally admitted, dropping the false cheeriness. "I forced her into stasis to tend to her wounds."

The awaited for reproach never came.

"Good," Optimus nodded feebly. "She has suffered - enough."

All the tension melted from Prime's frame, and his optics darkened. Facial plates relaxed, and his armor hung slack.

Ratchet bolted to the Prime's side, immediately checking on spark energy levels. The life force of Optimus pulsed steadily; he had slipped into a deep recharge. A scan informed Ratchet that millions of nanites activated and began the arduous task of melding new mechanics with old and converting Earth's alloys into living metal. Finally, true healing.

The medic patted the Prime's thigh. "You have suffered too," he murmured, knowing no one would hear.

Returning to Velocity, Ratchet untangled another section of cable from her leg and dropped the grime encrusted length into a bin on the floor. Picking up the welder, he reignited the flame, adjusted the regulator pressure, and set to work. He wondered if Velocity would be as understanding as her mate.

XxxX

Earth Days stretched and melted into each other. The Circadian Rhythm of biological species did not affect him; he worked until the need to refuel and recharge became unavoidable. His only function, to care for Optimus and Velocity, to heal - to repair. He never left his medbay, choosing to refuel at his workstation and recharge either on the empty repair bay or propped in a corner.

Ratchet tightly clamped a hose before severing the connection to an external circulator. Carefully, he slid the long, wet, no longer required tube out of the Prime's frame and laid it aside. Wiping traces of oils and fluids from his fingers, the medic began the process of reconnecting internal lines to each other and their respective mechanics.

Prime had drifted in, and mostly, out of recharge. His systems forced him offline to conserve and route energy into healing. Ratchet didn't try to override this process, the more the Prime stayed in recharge, the faster the healing would occur. Already, weld seams blurred with original mechanics, promising a favorable prognosis.

Ratchet made sure the other Autobots and humans stayed out of his medbay. A tersely spoken admonishment usually did the job. If that didn't work, he kept a supply of old tools handy to brandish or lob at the obtuse mech.

The door to medbay hissed open and shut, but the CMO didn't look up from his work. He didn't need to; the intruder resonated within his spark. A welcome visitor. As he tended to his patients, Wheeljack tended to him. Partners and bondmates, the two appeared polar opposites, but this duality made them stronger together than apart, a partnership of mind and spark.

The familiar electrical field brushed against him, as a cool hand rested on his shoulder as he continued working. Ratchet relished the simple touch, a soft comfort to offset the cycles repairing Decepticon violence.

"You called?" the scientist softly asked

A few more passes with the welder, and the line sealed perfectly. No gaps or leaks to cause problems later. Releasing the clamp, fluids rushed to needy mechanics, and the welds held. In a few cycles, after the nanites did their work, Ratchet would increase the fluid pressure to normal ranges. Another small victory.

Patting Wheeljack's hand, Ratchet responded, "Glad you came. It's time to wake up the red devil."

The hand slipped away. "And why isn't Ironhide here to assist with this?" Wheeljack asked as his pedfalls retreated across the room.

Ratchet harrumphed as he set his tools aside. "Because he said, 'no.' That's why."

"Then get someone else. I enjoy functioning." The words uttered in jest, but hollow melancholy muted their humor.

Turning to face his bonded, guilt gnawed at Ratchet. Wheeljack leaned against the storage cabinets, his arms crossed over his chest, armor plates sagged loosely, and the harsh lights of the medbay drained the color from already pale paint.

The chaos following Prime's injury and Velocity's return forced Ratchet to ignore his mate of nearly seven – no eight million years. So focused on the survivors, the medic forgot Wheeljack grieved for the loss of his friend, Tony Melby. Wheeljack needed him, but the Prime needed him more. Like most of Cybertron, they sacrificed nearly everything to serve and survive, but the CMO began to wonder if the sacrificing would ever end, or if anything worth saving would be left once it did.

In a soft voice, Ratchet addressed his partner, "' Jack, I am glad you are here. How are you holding up?"

The scientist shrugged shoulders rounded with exhaustion. "I'm fine; I don't want to be here when Velocity wakes up. That isn't a fight I want to have – ever." Even his vocal displays dully blinked when he spoke.

A minuscule smile quirked the edges of the medic's mouth, "But Velocity likes you," Ratchet teased. "You two are drinking buddies. You have a connection."

A glimmer of humor flickered in Wheeljack's optics. "She likes Ironhide too. They have a connection, and she brutally fights him for sport and spite." A slight shift and the scientist stood a little straighter. Humans weren't the only species that knew about the healing power of humor.

Seriously, Ratchet added, "I need someone I can trust, and there isn't anyone I trust more." He stroked the bond between them, that comforting connection between sparks.

A miserable mix of grief and appreciation flowed back to him, accentuating the need for them to spend time together.

Ratchet closed their bond; he didn't want Wheeljack to know how much all of this affected him. Only by focusing on the next task and ignoring the dark well of emotions threatening to smother him could the medic continue forward.

Nodding, but turning his gaze away, Wheeljack agreed. It took a few more Earth seconds for the pearlescent mech to move.

Squeals and pops from stiff joints accompanied Ratchet as he stood and moved his stool to the side.

"Primus, Ratchet. How long have you been sitting there?"

Twisting to loosen the stiffness, the medic didn't answer; in truth, he didn't want to know. It had already been too long. "I'm old. Primus 'Jack. You're old too."

Wheeljack chuckled softly, then asked seriously, "What do you need?

Pointing to the general area between the bunks, the medic hobbled to the further side of Velocity. "Stand between them. You are going to grab her and hold her down while I pull her out of stasis lock. If she comes off the bunk, grab her and keep her away from Optimus. She wouldn't intentionally hurt him, but accidents happen."

"Grab her, that is the grand scheme?" the scientist teased, "All claws and pissiness, just grab her." Clicking with exaggerated annoyance, Wheeljack headed where Ratchet directed him.

The medic watched his bonded closely. Every shift in armor plating, every tiny twitch conveyed information on Wheeljack's emotional state. Any expression of trepidation or anxiety and this could wait. Truthfully, Velocity would survive for half a millennium in her current state. One solar cycle more won't matter.

Wheeljack took his position. Steady and alert, the mech's reputed recklessness vanished to expose the thoughtful, focused competence few ever saw. For all the scientist's quirks, deranged humor, and intentionally ignoring procedure and propriety, Wheeljack possessed a sharp intellect and unconventional ingenuity. Traits that initially attracted Ratchet's attention, so long ago.

Ratchet offered his bonded a wistful smile.

Chiding himself for being a sentimental, old fool, the medic pulled away from sappy reverie. Deciding to move forward, he knew his mate wouldn't shirk duty.

"Hold down the arm nearest you, but keep an optic on her legs. Both are working, and the talons on her peds are designed for lethality," Ratchet instructed. "Her frame is extremely flexible, and she can easily…" He trailed off when he glanced at Wheeljack.

"Duh, I've seen that shit in action," the mech mocked, his optics glittering with mirth.

"Fine," Ratchet snapped. "Just keep her from attacking anyone."

The jovial twinkle faded from Wheeljack's optics, replaced with a steady glow. The mech carefully stroked the femme's arm and asked, "Why aren't you using the restraints? That would be easier."

Ratchet replied flatly, "Because I don't know what the Decepticons did to her, and how she would respond to waking up restrained." He glanced at his mate.

A cold light burned in Wheeljack's optics, and anger radiated from his electrical field. "I understand," he responded.

"'Jack?" the medic asked, leaning over the inert femme to close the distance to the scientist.

A tight smile lifted the corners of Wheeljack's optics, "I'm good. Just tired of seeing friends hurt."

The CMO promised himself that they would have some time together soon. A needed reprieve from the weariness of warfare.

"Ready?" Ratchet asked as he turned his attention once more to his patient. He didn't wait for a response; he didn't need one. Picking up the slender, red arm, he thought about his conversation with Prowl. He did fear what Velocity could become, but he also knew Optimus needed someone powerful at his side, someone, capable of contending with dangerous enemies and protecting the Prime.

A deep cycle of his vents and the medic plugged his interface into the femme. The universe shrank. Only he and Velocity existed, linked and entwined he paused on the threshold between them — a final moment to stabilize himself and plot his course.

He had two options. One, he could activate all of her programs at once, then release the femme from her spark chamber. Or two, release her consciousness first and slowly activate programs as she acclimated. Normally, he preferred the second method. It took longer, but the patients responded better as he guided them to taking control of their frames. Except, he didn't fully trust Velocity's current state of mind. Ratchet decided to unlock everything and run like a spawn of the Pit chased after him.

Decided and determined, the medic moved along dormant circuits. In this state, Velocity felt like any other Cybertronian Ratchet had pulled from stasis, but the familiarity was an illusion. The frame may be Cybertronian in design, but something radically alien inhabited it.

Activating programs came as second nature to him and didn't require much focus. Starting with the essentials, that ran spark sustaining mechanics, Ratchet allowed his thoughts to wonder.

He told Prowl the truth, the short version of the truth. They had no idea who Velocity's people were, but she didn't come from Earth, not naturally. Optimus had figure it out, his fascination and knowledge of Cybertron's history rivaled only those who lived through it. And Ratchet agreed with him, having the retched honor of knowing firsthand Sentinal Prime's complacency in galactic affairs. The Quintessons razed sector after sector, destroying world after world in their greed for raw materials. The lucky ones, likely Velocity's ancestors, took a gamble and fled to the stars, adrift in the cosmos, hoping to find a suitable world. Yet, Cybertron ignored the plight of other worlds - of the galaxy. Sentinal didn't care what happened to organic species; those were beneath his notice. Eventually, the Quintessons tried to harvest Cybertron and failed. No records tell how many civilizations were exterminated, how many sentient species wiped away, all because Cybertron didn't care.

Ratchet paused and pulled back, moving more of his consciousness back to his frame. "Run diagnostics," he instructed Wheeljack. Confident he didn't miss anything; he just wanted a second opinion.

"So far, so good," came the reply.

Returning to his patient, the medic moved to secondary programs. He activated external sensors and subroutines. Tertiary systems and redundancies fired up under his instruction. He took his time, sensing the femme's frame responding to his commands.

How much of Optimus's devotion to Velocity originated out of guilt for the decisions of others? How much of Optimus's fascination with the femme started with her ability to shape metal and touch sparks? How much did Optimus rely on her to keep him going? Ratchet wondered if Velocity might become the one thing that could keep the Prime on this side of the Matrix? A flame in the darkness of war. He didn't know, he suspected, but he didn't know. The mysterious workings of spark and processor were not his area of knowledge.

Back to the task at hand, he had to release Velocity from her prison. Without her consciousness and energy, the burnished frame became nothing more than a pretty, little drone.

Sighing to himself, Ratchet approached the spark chamber. He couldn't see the orb, but the hum of power created an image in his mind's eye. He paused long enough to create a map, an evacuation route to follow once he unlocked her from her prison. While she couldn't hurt him physically, having his consciousness attacked by another wasn't something he ever wanted to experience again.

Sending the codes, he unlocked her spark chamber and rapidly retreated.

Curiosity got the better of the medic, and he paused at the threshold that separated them. He wondered if she knew her imprisonment ended. Looking back, a fiery intelligence filled the paths behind him, and volcanic heat washed over him. On impulse, he reached out to her, an offering of understanding and peace. Bushing against her soul, a contact so light most would not notice it, but that touch affected him. The smells of damp Earth filled his olfactory sensors. Towering trees casting deep shadows on the ferns below them, and the slide of hard muscles underneath hot skin and fur. Of being alive in ways no Cybertronian would ever understand.

A deep growl warned him that her tolerance had reached its end. He left her and hurriedly severed their connection.

Replacing the interface cable, he glanced at his mate.

"Was she growling at you?" Wheeljack asked, his brow arched raised high.

"Yes," Ratchet responded blandly. "You heard that?"

Between them, Velocity remained limp, without a sign of inhabiting her frame. Wheeljack carefully moved the arm he held and folded it across her abdomen. "Yeah. At least she gave you a warning," he quipped.

XxxX

Every 'bot recovered from stasis lock differently, but everyone had an adjustment period while reclaiming their frame and mechanics. This lag left all weak, vulnerable, and disoriented. No one enjoyed the sensation.

In Ratchet's expert opinion, it took a burnished femme longer than it should have to recover. Only the subtle twitches and tiny spasms that periodically traveled along her frame hinted her assertion over her frame. On Cybertron, he would have interfaced again and guided the struggling mech or femme. Not with Velocity. His wait to intervene centered around not wanting to traumatize her more, but he to brush against that burning alien awareness again.

The deep cycle of vents pulled Ratchet from login a repair report. He sat the datapad aside and walked to the femme's repair bay. She remained on her back; her frame relaxed, but her optic flitted around, taking in her surroundings without moving her head.

A command and the lights dimmed, sending long shadows to fill the spaces below the bunks. "Is that better?" Ratchet asked calmly.

Velocity didn't respond. She cycled again.

Her silence didn't bother him. Instead, he scanned her, liking how energy levels dispersed evenly throughout her frame. "Most of your injuries have been repaired. I had to rebuild the intakes and two of your four vents." He moved into her line of sight. Dimly lit optics focused on him, and he offered a soft smile. "Can you see clearly?"

"Yes," croaked through newly activated vocals.

"Good," the medic encouraged. "Are there any distortions, blurry spots, or possible debris interfering with your vision?"

Velocity blinked her shutters and looked around. "No," she finally stated.

"Perfect. The replacement lenses in your right optic appear to fit. Over time, the focal and aperture openings might run against the new lenses and cause hazy spots. If this happens…"

"Optimus?" the femme interrupted as she turned her head to look at her mate.

"He is healing, mostly staying in recharge to speed up repairs."

Struggling to sit up, the femme's arms collapsed under her weight.

Ratchet lunged forward and caught her, "Easy, you are still weak." Using his greater mass, he began laying her back on the bunk.

She pushed limply against him, a feeble protest at his intervention. "Let me go," she protested.

"Oh, mute it," he gently scolded. "I'm your medic, and I'll do whatever I deem in your best interest."

Velocity dropped her gaze and sagged in his arms. All the fight melted from her, as helpless as a newly forged turbo rabbit. "I want to see him," she whispered, "Please."

"Primus, I'm turning into an old fool," the CMO mumbled to himself. To the femme, he offered, "Let me make sure your repairs are healing, and I will take you over to Optimus."

A quick nod from a crimson helm and Velocity settled onto her bunk once more.

Inwardly, the medic congratulated himself on the small victory. Outwardly, he acted as if he expected her acquiescence. Walking the length of her berth, he stopped at the foot of it. "I want to make sure the repairs on your injured leg are good before I let you up." A lie, a subterfuge to run a more important test.

"First, I am going to touch your ankle." He laid his hand on her ankle joint.

Velocity stiffened underneath his touch, stared at the ceiling above her. Crimson and copper hands curled into tight fists. But the femme didn't kick or lash out.

He continued. "I am going to pick up your ped and check the supports and joints." He lifted her ped. Using his fingers, he manipulated each articulated support. "Does this hurt?" he asked.

"No." came a soft reply.

Shifting his grip, he instructed, "Extend your claws."

Velocity relaxed a little, and with frightening speed, lethal claws snapped out of their housing.

He angled her ped and examined the metal shearing blades. "Good. Now retract them."

Almost as fast as they sprang forward, the talons disappeared.

Rachet moved his hands to her ankle. "What is your name?" He manually flexed the join, turning his audio towards it, listening.

"Velocity," she slowly spoke her name, curiosity thick in the syllables. Her gaze flicked to him, and a frown furrowed her brow arches together.

He ignored her answer and attention; the medic asked, "What was your name before?"

"Sira," she answered, suspicion replacing the curiosity.

Sliding his hand past her ankle, Ratchet focused intently on the seams between scarlet armor, where a cable once jammed her ability to shift modes. "What planet are you from?"

"Earth," she answered bluntly.

He moved up the leg to the knee. "Are you a human?"

No, never was?"

Using both hands, he ran his fingers on the back of the main gear in her knee. "Where did you grow up?"

He slowly bent the knee, feeling for catches or the vibrations of grinding metal. Realizing Velocity never answered him; the medic glanced towards the femme. She stared at the ceiling again, optic shutters blinking rapidly, her expression neutral, focus turned inward. Ratchet had witnessed this response before, in organics when they struggled to recall information. He returned her leg to the bunk and wiped his hands against each other.

"Looks like everything is healing just fine." The medic chirped, hiding the apprehension growing in his spark. The red femme failed the test. The damage in her processor had wiped part of her memory core. The loss didn't erase who she was, but it took part of her past from her.

"Want to go see Optimus?"

His words grabbed Velocity's immediate attention. She began struggling to sit up again. Ratchet stretched towards her, pushing her shoulder down. "Slow down. You will need help until you are fully in control of your frame." Closing the distance between them, he scooped up the small femme and carried her to her mate. Hooking an errant stool with his ped, Ratchet slid it into place beside the Prime's bunk.

Sitting the femme on the stool, Ratchet made sure she had her balance before releasing her.

Velocity said nothing, her gaze studied Optimus's wounds, but her expression gave nothing away, whatever her thoughts and emotions, she didn't show them.

After a breem, Velocity slumped across the Prime's bunk. She rested her helm on one arm and stretched the other to touch Optimus. It didn't take long for the need to recharge to darken the femme's optics.

Ratchet went back to his report, leaving the pair to rest. A movement caught his attention. Optimus moved his arm, so his fingers brushed against his mate.

Before he let her out of the repair bay, protocol directed the CMO to run detailed diagnostics on Velocity. He needed to know the extent of her injuries, of the damage to her processor. He would do that later; those things could wait. "I am an old fool," the medic mumbled to himself. With a silent command, he dropped the lighting level and went settled on to update his records.

XxxX

He existed to hunt. Nothing brought him greater pleasure than hunting another mech.

Before the war, his position in code enforcement allowed him the privilege to hunt mechs, but he could not bring the hunt to its logical end. The war changed that. The thrilling danger of an armed quarry. The challenge of creeping within touching distance of the target. He could hunt and terminate mechs and femmes at will.

On Earth, hunting meant remaining in his alternate form as not alert the humans or the Autobots. This need to remain undetected added another level of difficulty, and he relished the challenge.

The mech he sought specialized in hiding. Hardcore liked to stay concealed and safe while others fought. This reason alone should have been enough to wipe this self-serving, oil stain from the Decepticon ranks. Weakness and cowardness had no place in the future of Cybertron.

Barricade smiled to himself as his tires rolled over the speed bump, and the cool shadows of the parking garage engulfed him. This hunt took longer than expected, but it neared its inevitable end. Hardcore had cornered himself within this structure, likely hoping the metal and concrete would hide his signal. It almost did. What the fool didn't realize, the metal and concrete also interfered with detecting anyone stalking outside. Barricade was very good at stalking.

Slowly.

Methodically.

The shock trooper crept through the first level of the garage. He paid close attention to the sleeker, shinier sports cars: Mercedes, Audi, Lamborghini. He ignored the lumbering H2s, Range Rovers and Escalades.

Hardcore didn't deprive himself. Even when in hiding, he hid among the human elite in a city known for wealth, opulence and excess.

Decepticons, who didn't give a slag about humans, noticed how the creatures stratified themselves based on accumulated material objects and perceived power. This led to different stratas of humans congregating in different areas. Understanding these nuances made it easier to hide in plain sight. Barricade chose to stay on the edges of areas, where the people lacked power or wealth. Areas where humans viewed his altmode with suspicion and avoided him. He knew some of his brothers-in-arms stayed in more remote areas, away from the noise of humans. No matter the personal preference, they all stayed hidden unless called upon by Soundwave.

Turning a corner, Barricade rolled up a ramp to the second floor. Every parking slot on this floor held a vehicle. As he slipped past a couple of humans, they glanced his way and continued their strolling pace. Another indication of the level of affluence in this area. These humans viewed themselves above the code enforcers that protected them.

Barricade thought about simply scanning the interior of the garage for his prey, but that would take away all the fun. He chose to go slow and test his skills, not his sensors.

Pausing behind a low, silver car, he scrutinized it but finally decided Hardcore's vanity wouldn't allow a pink butterfly sticker on his back window. Sitting and focusing on that horrid detail, he made a note of it. Desperate times might call for desperate measures, but he would have to be fragging desperate.

Slowly.

Methodically.

The hunter moved through the rows of cars. Barricade wondered how Hardcore knew he had a target on his helm, or if he even knew. The shock trooper told no one he had Soundwaves permission to eliminate the former noble, and Soundwave rarely told anyone anything. That black mech didn't bother with petty gossip – important gossip – or even strategies or plans. An organic may call it instinct, but mechanoids don't have such a concept, so Hardcore picked up subtle clues and ran to the edge of the continent and pinned himself against the western ocean.

Barricade startled, jerking on his tires when the elevator next to him dinged, and the doors opened. He chided himself on being revved up at the anticipation of ending this hunt. The test of strength over another. The gurgle of energon flooding the floor. The dimming of optics as the spark faded and extinguished. Primus, he loved this.

A gaggle of noisy humans left the elevator and meandered in front of him, only giving him glances. He waited patiently for the mob of flesh to disperse and make their ways towards their vehicles. A "whoop" of his siren would have hurried them along, but it would have also echoed and bounced on the hard surfaces and announced his presence. A good predator moved as silently as possible when stalking.

The chronometer showed the local time to be midday, the time most humans went to refuel. So many people out trying to find fuel, this could be fun.

Ascending to the third level, the Decepticon noticed fewer vehicles than the previous two. Less chance for Hardcore to hide in the multitude.

Following the same patterns as before, Barricade worked through the predictable maze of cars. Rounding the last turn, the shock trooper spotted his target: low, sleek, and silver.

It took the click of an astrosecond before Hardcore exploded from the parking space in a squeal of tires and smoking rubber.

The trooper didn't hesitate; he charged forward to catch his target.

XxxX

A status update chimed on Prowl's datapad. Apparently, Velocity came out of stasis without much incident. Rising from his workstation, the tactician decided to head to medical

Not two cycles ago, Prowl stood down the base. Power consumption returned to normal, lighting brightened darkened corridors. Mech and men sensed the change and relaxed. The humans headed back to the surface, even though they left most of their gear and weapons below ground. He kept around the clock monitoring of their territory but hadn't assigned patrols. He couldn't relax or ignore his analysis, the Decepticons would - should take advantage of the Prime's infirmary and attack.

Yet, they hadn't.

It didn't make sense, and he didn't understand. He hoped talking to Velocity would help him find a variable he missed.

He entered medical, uncertain about what he would find. Lighting barely shone, blanketing the large room in shadows. Ratchet rarely dimmed the lights in medical, preferring to keep the room bright enough to rival a star.

Letting his optics adjust to the darkness, Prowl searched for the green CMO. The tactician found him at his workstation, his optics tracking across a datapad. Bright glyphs from the screen reflected off chrome and cast a sickly glow around the medic.

Not waiting for an invitation or explanation, Prowl moved towards the femme's repair bay, his ped falls shattered the still silence. He found the berth empty. A quick scan located the pseudo-femme partially slumped on her mate's bunk, an arm cradling her helm.

He curtly walked to the Prime's repair bay.

A grunt shifted his attention to Ratchet. As the lighting brightened, the CMO sat motionless, elbows on the table, fingers laced together, his cheek plates resting against his hands. The old mech's optics burned into the tactician's; without an utterance, Prowl knew his actions fell under scrutiny.

Returning his attention to Velocity, the SIC stood outside of her electrical field. He wanted to ignore the mix of curiosity and revulsion he felt towards her. It shouldn't matter; she was bondmate to the Prime. It shouldn't matter that her existence broke a hundred laws. It shouldn't matter that sacred ideologies would condemn her as a blasphemy. It didn't matter that Optimus had ignored ancient caveats and commandments to have her. None of this should have mattered, but it did. To Prowl, only infallible laws separated chaos and orders: regulations that forced restraint and obedience on those who possessed neither.

In his view, Optimus represented restraint and obedience. The young Prime known for compassion, tolerance, and forbearance, also represented all the good that Cybertron could offer. To know the Prime unabashedly ignored and cast aside all the guidance, statutes, and reason of the ancients to have this femme – female – bothered Prowl. Her existence forced the SIC forced to push personal views aside and act for the wellbeing of the Autobots.

Staring down at the femme, he called her name, "Velocity."

The femme cycled her vents deeply and buried her face against her arm.

Again, Prowl said, "Velocity."

The femme slowly sat up. She blinked repeatedly, then vacantly looked towards him.

Prowl slid to stand fully within her visual field. "I need to ask you some questions?"

With considerable struggle, dim, green, optics focused on him. "No," she mumbled. Turning away from his, Velocity slumped over and curled her arms into a nest for her helm.

Hiding his annoyance, the SIC stepped to the other side of the femme, her optics glowing from between barely opened shutters. He squatted level with her gaze, using one hand to balance himself against the Prime's bunk. "Velocity, this important. Only you have been to the Decepticon base and…"

Velocity muttered into her arms.

"What?" Prowl asked, hoping for information and not a string of explicatives.

She raised her head slightly and repeated, "It wasn't a base." Then, she rested her helm once more.

Prowl glanced from the inert Prime, then to the ceiling above him, trying to find patience. Brow arches carved out a deep frown on his face as he looked back at Velocity. "What do you mean, it wasn't a base?"

Shuttering her optics, the femme's armor tightened on her frame, and her shoulders rounded further. "It was an abandoned factory of some kind in Mexico. Now, go away," she moaned.

Her words nearly confirmed his worse fears. In all the possibilities he ran through his processor, the Decepticons not securing a base of operations or bailiwick like the Autobots, offered the worse scenarios. Without a centralized base, the Decepticons would employ guerrilla tactics. They would hit and run, scattering in all directions, hiding, off the sensors until they attacked again. Without a central base, it would take the Autobots years, if not centuries, to hunt down and eliminate their enemies, one at a time.

Leaning towards the red and copper frame, the tactician needed more intel. He needed to know. He needed to plan. He needed to prepare. And he needed her to tell him all she knew. "How many different Decepticons can you remember? Did you overhear any conversations? Any small details can be important, and you must tell me everything you witnessed."

"Go away," the femme moaned into her arms.

He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand. The touch electrified her. Launching backward off the stool, Velocity slashed at him with a taloned hand and barely missed. The only her newly repaired leg collapsing underneath the strain saved his optics.

The tactician just processed what happened when a pair of hands clamped roughly onto his shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Prowl spun to find the angry, scarred face of Ironhide inches from his own.

"You need to leave," the black mech growled.

Before responding, Prowl glanced over his shoulder to see Ratchet hurriedly checking on the unconscious Prime. Velocity lay on the floor, curled in a tight ball, her vents heaving rapidly.

Not certain what had happened, but knowing he would be blamed, the tactician held up his hands in acquiescence. "I'm leaving."

Heading to the door, he heard Ratchet state, "Thank you for getting here quickly," and a responding grunt.

Stalking down the corridors of the base, Prowl wondered what he would need to say to make everyone aware of the urgency of their situation. Without the imminent threat of war, the Autobots became blind to the possibilities. Earth had afforded them a chance to relax and recuperate from the eons of battle, but he wondered if it would be their undoing.

XxxX

Hardcore didn't have the horsepower of Barricade, and the shock trooper rapidly closed the distance. As the silver mech reached the top of the incline to the fourth level, Barricade accelerated.

With a rawr of angry engines, the police car used slammed into the Aston Martin.

Hardcore didn't have a chance to transform to defend himself. His side crumpled under force of the full impact. Both Cybertronians slammed into and through the concrete wall.

Four stories to the ground, blocks of rubble, spears of rebar, and dust rained upon pedestrians and vehicles alike. Black and silver vehicles fell to Earth, exploded and reformed themselves. Claws and fists inflicted damage before the mechs completed their changes.

Screams filled the air as people panicked and fled.

Barricade had the advantage and kept Hardcore between him and the ground, using the noble mech as a cushion, softening the fall. Staying on top of Hardcore, Barricade pinned the silver mech with one knee. Pulling a short-muzzled blaster, the shock trooper intended to execute the failed Decepticon for all to see.

Pain lanced through Barricade's side and radiated outward, surging along his circuits. He rolled off Hardcore trying to get away from the torture.

Both Decepticons scrambled to their peds, facing off and sizing each other up.

Hardcore had activated his shock stick. The weapon sizzled threateningly as the mech spun it in a circle.

The trooper knew the weapon wouldn't be immediately lethal, but Hardcore had perfected the use of it. Termination by excruciating torture and fried circuits did not appeal to Barricade, and he backed out of range.

The aristocrat moved with him, keeping the prod spinning between them. Rage twisted the polished facial features into a mask of rage. "Why?" shouted Hardcore.

Barricade shrugged and stowed his weapon. "You are a waste of metal and in my way."

He charged. The shock trooper reached over his shoulder and whipped a spiked mace over his head.

Hardcore swung the prod at him, attempting to deflect the blow.

Barricade anticipated the move and used the cable of his mace to tangle the shock stick. The added weight threw off Hardcore's balance, and the Decepticon dropped his weapon.

The former code enforcer never slowed and dropped the mace and entangled shock stick. He smiled as he reached aristocrat; this was where he outperformed the haughty mech. His fist smashed Hardcore in the face, shattering plates and exposing delicate mechanics.

Energon immediately seeped from the wound.

Stumbling backward, Hardcore swung blindly, trying to defend himself.

Barricade assaulted the other mech, smashing knee and ankle joints with glee. He ripped off armor and beat the other into submission. Claws raked at exposed mechanics, and the few countermeasures Hardcore tried to use against him failed. Barricade decided to rip the other mech apart. Spilled energon and mech fluids began to pool in the street and splattered the sides of buildings. The broken glass sparkled in the bright day, tiny, fake diamonds littering the ground. A few broken and flattened humans dotted the area, primates to stupid or unable to move fast enough.

Barricade whirled in a dance of butchery. He prolonged the inevitable, wanting the arrogant mech to suffer, to understand pain and fear. To cry for his progenerators to save his worthless aft.

Sirens wailed from a distance, and Barricade pouted with disappointment. Even in war, he rarely had the opportunity to enjoy his work fully. He needed to finish this.

Hardcore crawled on his hands and knees, desperate to getaway. What little fight that mech ever had, lay spewed on the ground around them.

Advancing, Barricade pulled a blade, thinking the head would make a nice trophy. Beyond his victim, human police cars slid onto the street, blocking the road, their lights strobed blue and red. Apparently, closer than he realized. Perhaps one of the few decent punches Hardcore landed knocked an audio sensor lose?

He ignored the human intruders; they could do little to stop him. He walked towards his target confidence in his ped falls. A shrill whistle cut the air, and a millennium of warfare and training took over. He dove just before a missile hissed over his helm. The projectile exploded behind him, raining metal and asphalt in all directions.

Shocked at the audacity, Barricade scanned the pack of uniformed humans. Never had he encountered such heavy ordinance outside of fighting the formal military. There, behind the regular patrol cars, an armored van with heavier armored humans dropped another ordnance into its launcher.

"Slag!" the hissed. He had sustained a few injuries from the battle and didn't want to engage humans who had enough firepower to damage him critically. Dropping to all fours, he shifted into a police car and tore away from the area. He hurried through allies and side streets, weaving and back tacking to make sure no one could follow him.

XxxX

The humans had distracted Barricade, and now he had a chance. He took it.

It took longer and hurt like the pit as his damaged gears, and transformation cogs compacted him into a vehicle. He revved his engine and choked on the energon, spilling into his vents. Sputtering, he tried to roll forward, but the humans advanced on him. Weapons surrounded him, and they had prepped another missile.

He waited until they circled him. He accelerated, intentionally plowing into several of the humans. Soft bodies thumped off his windshield or collapsed under his tires. He hoped they would focus more on their fallen members.

Sirens wailed behind him, and he doubted he could hide in this city for long. He needed to get out, away from Barricade, away from the humans. He needed his injuries tended to or faced a slow termination.

He sent one distress signal to the only mech he could trust on this wretched planet. Then, he turned east and heading for the mountains, hoping to make it to the desert beyond.

XxxX

Authors Note: Ha! An Update. I have the next chapter in progress, but no idea when I will drop it. If my current record stands, it will be next year. Hopefully not.

Read. Enjoy.