Another chappie and guess who's joined in the fun? (Warning; Autobot-centric fic. I'm so very ashamed…)

Shades of Grey

Optimus Prime looked at the latest batch of recruits lined up before him, and nodded.

"You. You. And you. Target practice, tomorrow, here, early morning. Fender and Swiftwheels, I want you both on repair and maintenance duty for the next two days. Everyone else, battle simulations, tomorrow afternoon, don't be late. Go well."

Fifteen arms-with the exception of those belonging to Fender and Swiftwheels, who were looking sulkily at the floor- were raised in salute, and seventeen voices rang out through Iacon's training arena (because neither Fender nor Swiftwheels cared to push their luck that far.)

"Yes, Optimus Prime, sir!"

Keeping his face as approving and paternal as possible, Optimus watched as they trailed from the arena, most heading towards Hacksaw's for repairs. It was only when the last recruit had left that he sighed, slumped and buried his face in one hand.

He hadn't asked for the name. He hadn't asked for the respect, either. They just…came. Somehow, without his demanding it, the faces of young Autobots looked up at him with admiration and keenness, no matter what he did to change their minds.

And that wasn't the worst part. That would be the name, and all the trouble it brought him with Superior Officers (Optimus, unlike Squint, had never had any problems with capitals, and slotted them in wherever the opportunity arose.) Superior Officers, who didn't like being faced with a Still Very Junior Officer, who had, in the space of a piffling one and a half millions years, acquired a large number of adoring new recruits, a polite and calm manner of speaking, and a name that shrieked from the highest tower, "I'm Best".

It was all very trying.

"Yes, Optimus Prime, sir!"

Most basic training officers-even Autobot training officers- would have been grateful to receive a grunt and a resentful 'Sure', 'Okay', or 'If you say so, sir'. Optimus had encountered officers who practically glowed with delight when someone three millions years their junior gave them a sullenly muttered 'Whatever'. With him it was…different.

And no, he reminded himself, he didn't like it in the least.

He looked up. A speck of white had appeared against Iacon's light purple-blue sky, flying far out of designated airspace. He smiled, and sighed without knowing why.

Striding through the Iacon Training Headquarters, he nodded sagely and tried not to wince at every cheerful, "Good morning, sir!"

Hacksaw didn't wear a sigil. Optimus could not understand why. The medic was, in all other respects, extremely vocal where his personal opinions were involved. Once, rumor had it, he'd crudely nailed an unfortunate soldier's foot to the floor, for making the mistake of declaring that his wings had been stuck back on unevenly. Optimus would have been certain that this was a rumor, had he not also been aware that the soldier reputed to have been involved was Jetfire. Somehow, that fact made things a little more believable.

And then there had been the incident when he'd had to rescue a recruit named Groundbomb from where he had been welded to the highest ceiling in he Headquarters, and he was sure Hacksaw had had nothing to do with that, even if he had heard later that both mechs in question had had a disagreement over the existence of Primus and Groundbomb had called Hacksaw something along the lines of 'a decripite wreck who would known a welding tool from a wrench'…

But he didn't wear a sigil.

Normally, this sort of thing would have lead to Trouble (Optimus guiltily slotted in the capital 'T', comforting himself with the knowledge that it was justly deserved) with High-Ranking Officers. It hadn't, for the sole reason that even the toughest, most grizzled High-Ranking Officer would sooner gnaw off his own leg than question Hacksaw in any way at all.

Hacksaw was good at what he did. The fact that what he did ranged from life-or-death repair jobs to land-leveling demolitions escaped no one's notice.

He looked up as Optimus entered the weaponry, and scowled. His crimson-with-the-blood-of-thousands paint job made him look fractionally, in Prime's opinion, like a red dwarf constantly on the verge of going supernova.

"I haven't got time to talk to you, I'm very busy, what do you want?" he barked, as though Optimus had strode into his private med-bay during an intense and delicate operation.

Optimus stared. Politely, because he knew few other ways, he said, "Hacksaw…what's that?"

Hacksaw glanced up at the multi-cylinder hand-held missile launcher he had balanced on one shoulder.

"This? Oh, nothing."

Optimus looked at him. It was a look he had learned to use when dealing with Hacksaw, an expression of humbled pleading and genuine curiosity, mixed in with the promise that although he was, of course, lowlier than dust, he would still very much like to know what Headquarter's most inventive and cunning medic was currently doing. Please? If it wasn't too much trouble?

It was remarkable, Optimus mused, how expressive you could be with only two optics and a nasal ridge to work with.

If anyone else had tried the Look, they would have had a wrench thrown at their heads, or at least received a glare and a trademark "Push off'. But Optimus was…different.

Hacksaw glowered at him, before dissolving into a snaggletoothed grin. Leaning slightly closer to the corporal, as though they were both conspirators in some dangerous and highly illegal scheme, he said, "Wing-spies".

Wing-spies were a new Decepticon creation, designed to sneak in and gather information without being seen. One of them would have been roughly half the size of Optimus Prime's hand, equipped with wings and ten-mile range scanners. Upon finding itself cornered, a wing-spy would automatically transmit all gathered information to one of its nearby vulture-like brethren, and then explode. Spectacularly.

The only way high-command had found of dealing with them was to shoot at them from a distance. The property damage tended to be as spectacular as the explosion, but it did mean that the wing-bots couldn't send back their intelligence.

Shooting wing-spies had recently become a very popular hobby on the outer walls of Iacon. Eyeing the bazooka laid casually over Hacksaw's shoulder, Optimus felt understanding begin to dawn. He nodded.

"Be careful", he advised as the medic slipped out, earning a glare and a barked, "Mind your own business, Mr. Antennae."

Collecting up his twin rifles-with much care and affection, for he loved them as a mother loves her children-, he reflected that, useful as the men's latest hobby was, it did, perhaps, explain why Jetfire had stayed away as of late. The wing-spies had succeeded in sharpening prejudice, and sometimes it seemed almost as though those on the outer walls took a little bit too much enjoyment in what they were doing…

It was ridiculous, of course. It wasn't even as though the majority of Decepticons could fly. But the fact remained that sometimes, after one too many aerial attacks, people needed a sub-group to hate. Hating an entire species was easy, of course, but hating with especial potency a group that made up one fourth of that species did spice things up a little bit.

Of course, Optimus thought, there could be other reasons for Jetfire's recent absence. His mood decreased as one occurred to him.

He thought, and headed to the Pinnacle.

Amongst the tallest buildings on Iacon, the Pinnacle rose into the sky like a blunt needle. War damage marred its sides, great chunks taken out by years of missiles and aerial-assault. But it stood. Its original design had been ridiculously sturdy, reinforced so many times that, apart from the injuries done by war, it had survived the last six million years completely unchanged. It had, of course, been constructed during what was officially recorded as peace-time, and it was one of those buildings that made Optimus marvel at how very…prepared the architect had been for the coming war.

At the top was an open pavilion, equipped with seven mounted cannons. At any given moment, a force-field dome could be activated, safely shielding the cannons and those manning them. This, also, was a product of peace-time, although the cannons themselves were newer additions.

It was a place Optimus knew he could depend on. It wasn't quite the tallest tower of Iacon, but it had the best view.

Three million steps and one elevator ride later-it would have been three elevator rides and two steps, but equipment had been damaged in an attack- and Optimus crawled out into the weak, open sunlight of the pavilion.

He staggered over to the nearest cannon and slumped against it. His fuel-pump, despite being stuck inside a young and healthy shell, was racing as though he'd just fought off a Decepticon armada.

After a while, he said, "Do we always have to go through this?"

A quiet snigger met his audios. Despite the protests of every joint in his body, he turned around to glance over his shoulder at the smirking, winged shape leaning casually against the pavilion railing.

"Aw. Wittle Oppie's getting old."

Prime slumped back.

"Sooner or later" he said to the air, "one of us has to die. And it doesn't really matter who goes first"- he hauled himself to his feet, wincing slightly-"because either way, I'll finally be able to catch a break from you."

He looked at his friend again, smiling now. "How are you, Jetfire?"

Without even hearing the answer, he could take one look at the shuttle and make an accurate guess. He winced, not because of his joints this time.

"Not so bad. How's yourself?"

One optic flashed off in a wink, then returned to its normal shade. Dimmer than it should have been, Prime noticed. 'Not so bad'…

The shuttle was still wearing his not-quite-recently acquired battle mask. Again, Optimus wondered why he wore it. Jetfire's explanation at the time had been a snigger and a simpering, "Because I want to look just like you, Optimus Prime, sir." Fully aware of the adulation Optimus received from his students, Jetfire snatched every opportunity to tease him about it.

Optmus remembered thinking, at the time, that there was something wrong with the way he said it, something that made the joke fall dead.

"I'm fine."

You're not.

The unspoken point hung in the air, assisted by an ever-so-slight stress on the 'I'.

Jetfire chuckled uncomfortably, reaching up to scratch the sensors on the back of his helmet. The gesture revealed a dent in his armor that hadn't been there when last Optimus had seen him. Noticing where Prime's optics had landed, Jetfire hastily dropped his arm.

"Uh…good."

Optimus stared at him, being sure to keep his expression far out of the hostile zone. Jetfire responded to accusations in the same way he responded to aggression; badly.

"I heard your team leader was wondering where you were", the young corporal stated mildly, making light conversation instead of making a point.

Jetfire shifted awkwardly, and Optimus thought: Why do we always have to go through this?

"Yeah…I was busy."

Optimus looked at him for a few seconds, aware that this would do about as much good as telling Hacksaw to take a day off.

He sighed and shook his head, giving up on any lingering hope of extracting answers from his best friend here and now. Instead, he walked over to the shuttle, folded his arms, and heaved a great sigh. Jetfire cocked his head and brightened his optics. Optimus knew him well enough by now to imagine the small pleasepleasepleaseforgivemeI'llneverdoanythingwrongagain smile that had appeared beneath his facemask.

"What am I going to do with you?"

"Weeell" replied the pale Autobot, a trace of his typical mischief appearing in his voice, "I guess you could always put me on repair and maintenance duty for a week."

He ducked to avoid a swipe, as they both laughed, some of the tension dissipating.

"Let's go."

Still chuckling, Jetfire moved away from the cannon to follow his higher-ranked companion. Then he winced, raised a hand to one optic and stumbled sideways, balance thrown by the sudden movement.

"Aah, dammit…"

Optimus caught him just before he fell over, trying to ignore the sudden urge to deal a good, honest clout to the flyer's head.

"What would you do without me", he muttered as Jetfire steadied himself.

"Die quickly." The reply was instant. However mud-drenched his wits were, his tongue was forever blade-sharp. "But that's if I'm lucky…"

As one, they made their way down the steps of the Pinnacle.

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AN: Yes, the wing-spies are larger, outdated versions of Laserbeak. Red's a plagiarist!