Author's Notes: Well, this was never my intention, but I think this has been an annual fic for the past couple years. The first chapter came out in December of 2020, the second chapter came out in December of 2021, and this one is being posted in November of 2022. Man, hopefully I can start updating this story, as well as some others, faster than this -_-'

Chapter 3

Fly By Night

The room was dark and quiet, still as a stone, and yet the sound of heavy intakes dared to disturb this perfect peace. Warpath had just onlined after a nightmare, and only the blue light from his optics shining against the wall reminded him that the place of his torment was no longer real. He was on earth.

Earth was a young and naive world with a culture that reminded Warpath much of his own. Humans were messy, complicated, and capable of the kindest deeds as well as the foulest maledictions. Warpath liked humans, and he liked earth, but despite this diversion his processor never really left battle mode. The war still raged, even if its form was calmer than before. As long as the enemy still knew their location, which they did, he could never truly rest.

Warpath reached into his subspace and took out one of the few possessions he had left from Cybertron; a cyberpup stress relief toy. He squeezed it and watched the rubbery material contort and reform its shape like nothing had ever happened. It was a shame sparks didn't repair themselves as easily as this toy. Warpath actually had two of these rubber squeeze toys, which should have been a sign of how stressed he always was, given that two separate people deemed to give him one.

This particular stress reliever reminded Warpath of the mech who gave it to him, and the source of his nightmare. This toy was a gift from his sire upon finding out he had been accepted to the Polyhex Military Academy. Warpath didn't want to go, but his sire had been insistent that he keep up their Helexian legacy and defend Cybertron. Warpath didn't understand then, and he wished he didn't understand now.

In the dream, Warpath found himself at the academy's obstacle course with his sire and his friend Air Warrior. They were having a race to see who could get to the end fastest, but Air Warrior decided to cheat and fly over the whole thing. Air Warrior was then shot down by a mysterious shadowy figure, and Warpath's sire chased after them to get revenge.

Warpath drove after his sire to stop him, afraid that the shadowy figure would kill his sire. When they caught up to the one that had murdered Air Warrior, to Warpath's shock and horror it was Optimus Prime, whose echoed laughter tolled over his evil deed. Optimus then shot both of them in the chassis, and their cannons fell off.

Warpath knew it was just a nightmare, none of it was real, and yet the terrible images came from a place deep within his spark. Spike's questions brought back a lot of hidden feelings in Warpath. Air Warrior was Warpath's first best friend, and he had been killed in battle. His sire mysteriously disappeared when the government started cracking down on war-makes in Helex, and Warpath never saw him again.

There was one conclusion Warpath often ignored, and yet it was still something buried deep within his processor. The Autobots had done these things to him. When his sire was taken from him they were both nobody. Merely forged labor. He was just a youngling at the military academy, and his sire was just one street patrol tank of hundreds. When Air Warrior was killed they were Decepticons by then, but it wasn't like Air Warrior was good at his job. He was a clumsy flier that would sooner crack a dark joke or read a novel as opposed to shooting down Autobots. He was an easy target, and the Autobots took the shot.

Warpath got off his berth, sighed, and walked to the rec room to get some energon. No one was up this late except Red Alert and whoever was unfortunate enough to get the night shift for outdoor patrol. Warpath wondered if he should volunteer for the night shift sometimes. The less time he spent recharging the better.

Warpath knew the Decepticons were wrong. He understood that the Autobots were not the same mechs and femmes that oppressed their world during the reign of Sentinel Prime. He also knew he could never support a cold-blooded murderer like Megatron. Yet he still understood how it felt to wear that purple sigil and see life through those red optics. Being reminded that Bluestreak still saw him that way was just another weight bogging down his processor.

As purple energon glowed in the dark room and filled his cube, Warpath saw the purple paint of his deceased friend Air Warrior, and the potential that was lost due to the poor young mech being used as cannon fodder.

The Decepticons were just as responsible as the Autobots. They knew Air Warrior wasn't a good soldier, and yet they threw him at the enemy. Decepticons and Autobots alike saw the weaknesses of their enemies and took aim. Yet, this was not the whole story. Warpath remembered the mech that kept him from becoming that same type of sparkless killer…

Beachcomber. This mech saw Warpath's weakness and held back. There was no easier target than Warpath stumbling through land mines, and yet Beachcomber chose to help him instead. Some Autobots might have considered Beachcomber a traitor if they knew that about him. Warpath knew better though. Beachcomber was the type of mech that embodied the Cybertron the Autobots were striving for. A Cybertron without blind hatred, without fear, and with open processors ready to accept new points of view.

Sipping his energon through the holes in his face mask, Warpath managed to smile. Life wasn't hopeless, and Beachcomber was only one example of the hope Warpath felt. There was also his beloved Moonracer back on Cybertron. There were innocent aliens like Spike and Sparkplug. There were friends like Hound, Trailbreaker, Powerglide, and more. There was Optimus Prime, a mech that saw the horrors Megatron wrought and did his part to stop them.

Walking back to his room, the dark doing very little to cloak his loud footfalls, Warpath decided to try to get a little more recharge. The hope in his spark would hopefully translate into better dreams.

"Again?" Vortex groused when he looked at the Combaticon common room door.

Spray-painted on the door was yet another message that read GET SCRAPPED, OIL RIVER KILLER. Vortex frowned, harrumphed, and went through the door anyway. He wasn't cleaning that up.

As soon as he sat down on the couch he crossed his arms and sulked. Swindle and Brawl, who were sitting at the table drinking their energon, saw his demeanor and smirked. It could only mean one thing…

"It happened again, didn't it?" Swindle asked.

"Dead End is such a gossip," Vortex grumbled, "Now everybody on the ship knows about my crimes! This should be a great moment for me, but for some reason everybody is mad at me. I mean, I am famous after all. That should count for something, right?"

"You're a fraggin' monster. What did you expect?" Brawl snorted.

"Fans asking for autographs?" Vortex suggested haughtily, "I mean this is a war, if I recall correctly. Everybody here has killed someone."

Brawl just slumped in his seat and refused to make optic contact.

"Uh, Cybertron to Vortex, it ain't the same!" Swindle exclaimed, "These jokers still think they're on the right side of somethin'. You bot-napped innocent people and tortured them for your own amusement. Now everybody hates the Combaticons because of you and your stupid criminal record! Mech, I could just strangle Onslaught! If he hadn't spilled our secrets, then maybe we wouldn't be pariahs right now."

"You told on my illustrious career, you turncoat!" Vortex reminded Swindle, "Now I'm glad everyone knows you sold to both sides!"

"Hey, I'm still sittin' pretty!" Swindle countered, "As long as I can get the goods, no one cares where I get them from."

"I nr kl nwn," Brawl mumbled under his breath, still not looking at them.

"Huh?" Swindle grunted.

"I said I never killed anyone!" Brawl roared angrily, "Vortex said everyone here has killed someone. Well, I haven't, and now everybody knows it! I'm a laughing stock! My ability to deal damage is my only advantage, and now everyone thinks it's a load of scrap! I hate you guys so much!"

"Oh shut up, pamphlet boy," Vortex scoffed, "I actually have a reputation to care about. How do I get these yokels to stop debasing our property?"

"You're the torturer around here," Swindle smirked, "Think of somethin'."

Vortex was about to retort, but then his processor caught up with what Swindle said.

"Hm…that's a great idea," Vortex purred, "Find someone random, accuse them of the crime, and get them to 'confess'. That will send a message to the actual perpetrator. Hah, and everyone says war is hard."

"Could you accuse Hook?" Brawl requested, "He's the one that asked about Onslaught's fraggin' credentials."

"I would, but we still need a medic," Vortex replied nonchalantly, "Perhaps I can accuse Breakdown. He seems easily swayed. He'll confess within two breems and be scarred for life. Maybe I can even keep his optic as a souvenir."

"Frag, I hate bein' attached at the spark to you," Swindle complained.

"Same here," Brawl added, "I wonder what it would take to get you fraggers outta my head."

"You would have to kill yourself," Vortex told him smugly, "But of course, I've seen inside your spark enough to know you don't have the nerve for that."

"Yet. I don't have it yet," Brawl growled.

"Now, now! Let's not say stuff we can't take back," Swindle said placatingly, "Remember who the real enemy is here."

"Onslaught…" Brawl spat.

"No! Everybody that ain't us," Swindle explained, "We're Combaticons. That means we need each other to survive. You know who we don't need? Everybody else. Decepticon, Autobot, it's all the same. We just have to look out for ourselves, and each other, and the rest of the universe can eat scrap."

"Spoken like a true opportunist," Vortex said approvingly, "I suppose there are worse mechs to be tethered to."

"Easy for you to say," Brawl groused, "You didn't get stuck with the Oil River Killer."

Spike was repairing a broken fuel tank in the garage and trying to keep his mind off the past few days. Everything he thought he knew about the Autobots was falling apart around him, and it all started with the knowledge that Bluestreak was afraid of Warpath.

Hard as he tried, Spike couldn't piece together why this was. Was it just because Bluestreak was traumatized by Praxus falling? Did Warpath's city-state of Helex have something to do with it? Was this a racism thing, or was there something more? Did Cybertron even have racism? Also, what did Beachcomber have to do with any of this? There were so many questions swirling around in Spike's mind, and he didn't know how to make sense of any of it.

His reverie was broken when he heard pede steps behind him, and saw that Powerglide was entering the garage; his wing in less than good repair.

"Hey kid, can you give me a hand?" Powerglide requested, "I got clipped by a cliff while out on patrol last night."

"Sure thing, Powerglide. Just give me a chance to fix this fuel tank. Gears won't be able to eat until he gets it back."

"I'm guessin' there was nothin' wrong with it," Powerglide grinned knowingly.

"Well…" Spike grimaced, "He said there was."

"Heh, typical Gears," Powerglide chuckled, "That mech is the most annoyin' thing to come outta Vector Sigma. Eh, assuming it was Vector Sigma. I'd rather not think he was a merge spark. Hah!"

"Um, Powerglide? Can I ask you something?" Spike ventured.

"As long as it ain't about why I crashed into a cliff," Powerglide stipulated.

"No," Spike assured him, "I was wondering what you knew about Warpath and Beachcomber. Have you been friends with them long?"

"Longer than you can imagine," Powerglide replied, "Beachcomber and I met on assignment on a planet called Topitron. Beautiful planet, lots of birds. Come to think of it, I think that's where I met Warpath too."

"Yeah? Well, what do you think about them?" Spike asked, not really sure how to ask what he really wanted to know.

"I think they're weird," Powerglide said point blank.

Spike snorted laughter, not expecting that response.

"Eh, let me explain," Powerglide backtracked, "Beachcomber and Warpath look like they should be very different. They were raised differently, built differently, and served different functions under the old caste system. That bein' said, I think they're actually very similar."

"Similar?" Spike asked skeptically, "But Beachcomber doesn't like to fight, and Warpath does."

"You're thinkin' too specific," Powerglide corrected him, "I'm talkin' about the way their sparks are made. Beachcomber and Warpath meet someone, and immediately give themselves completely to that person, whoever it is. I don't mean romance, but, you know, just openness. The two of them are a couple of open sparks on silver platters, and no matter who hurts them they keep comin' back for more. Like Moonracer. She told me that the first time she met Warpath she was pullin' a honey trap on him, and yet those two still ended up gettin' together for real, hundreds of vorns later. Not to mention how many times Beachcomber got robbed only to say that the mugger was 'still kind of a cool dude'. Mech, I don't understand people like that."

"Huh…I never thought of it like that," Spike pondered, "Um, by the way, what's a honey trap?"

"Uh…" Powerglide really didn't want to answer that, "Well…you ever see those ads for hot chicks that you know are spam?"

"Sure," Spike replied, "All the time."

"Well, imagine that, but instead of gettin' your bank account info the hot chick pulled a gun on you," Powerglide explained, "You see, at that point Moonracer and Warpath were in very different places in their lives. The war had just started and Moonracer had a grudge against De- eh…uh, I'm not sure how much of this you're supposed to know."

"What is it?" Spike pressed, "What are you afraid of telling me?"

"It ain't nothin' too bad. I just don't wanna betray the confidence of a friend, that's all," Powerglide told him, "You see, there's a sayin' where I come from. Cybertron never forgets. It means we live through so much of our own history that everything is tied to everything else. Like, my grandsire was murdered by the Oil River Killer. That was before the war, ancient history, yet the killer's spark is still held in a maximum security prison on Cybertron because Kalis didn't believed in the death penalty. So, Cybertron never forgets."

"But what does any of that have to do with Beachcomber and Warpath?" Spike asked, exasperated, "Why is Bluestreak afraid of him? Why doesn't Warpath know Bluestreak? What does political asylum have to do with any of this? I'm sorry to keep asking Powerglide, but at this point it feels like some sort of conspiracy."

"It ain't a conspiracy," Powerglide corrected, "It's just personal. Since you know part of it already though, I might as well tell you the rest. Just don't let Warpath know I told you, okay? He'll think I just did it to be mean. You see kiddo, Warpath started out the war as a Decepticon."

"What!?" Spike shouted, "Sorry, it's just…what?"

"Yeah, I met him when he defected to the Autobots," Powerglide explained, "Warpath was a strange case. A lot of ugly rumors followed him as a Decepticon soldier. I'd heard that he killed sparklings, buried old people alive, and raped femmes with careless abandon. Of course, none of it was true. He was a kid when the war started, like most of us, and he just picked a side based on where he could get some fuel. When he realized the Autobots were a more righteous cause than the 'Cons, he joined us with very little hesitation."

"So Bluestreak is afraid of him because he doesn't believe Warpath is innocent?" Spike asked.

"Eh…innocent is a relative term," Powerglide wheedled, "You see Spike, there is one piece of Warpath's record that's true, and that Bluestreak probably can't forgive. Warpath was one of the soldiers at the destruction of Praxus."

Spike didn't say anything for a moment, just let the information sink in. Powerglide was clearly uncomfortable with this conversation, but he didn't leave because he still needed Spike to repair his broken wing. He would've gone to Ratchet, but it was physical exam week, and Powerglide was still hoping to get out of it.

"But why?" Spike finally asked, "Bluestreak said Praxus was a city full of civilians. Why would Warpath participate in something like that?"

"He was a Decepticon," Powerglide replied as if that explained everything, "Look, Cybertron might not forget, but it doesn't mean you have to feel that way. I know Warath is your friend. Pit, he's my friend too. Don't let this get to you. Bluestreak is a good mech, but he can't be expected to kiss and make up after somethin' like that. His childhood was taken from him, and his people are nearly extinct. You don't just get over somethin' like that. Just let them keep their distance, and everything will be alright."

That sentiment didn't set well with Spike, but he was in no position to argue the point. He didn't know much about Cybertronian culture, which he was starting to understand included many cultures. As he worked on Powerglide's wing he began to piece more of the puzzle together.

Warpath was the only tank on board the Ark, but the Decepticons had multiple tanks. The Decepticons didn't have their own car-formers until they made some. Was the war between their two peoples motivated by race? Spike always assumed it was a simple good vs evil space battle, but with every bit of new information the conflict became more complicated.