Okay. On the one hand, this is really, really late. On the other hand…it's got Smokescreen? ((does the ostrich thing))

Lay My Spirit High

Optimus had been right. This was very therapeutic.

He raised the Ultra-Super Sonic Blast Cannon, the terror of Decepticons and delicate ecosystems everywhere, and fired. Half a mile away, a cloud of wing spies dissolved into cosmic dust.

Jetfire was prepared to admit it. He wasn't the planet's best close-combat fighter. Considering his mass, relative to the average seeker, this was odd. But, just as confined rooms and low ceilings made him itchy, so did numerous close-pressing bodies, all either moving to save their own lives or to take his. He had long accepted the fact that the day he found himself in battle without a gun handy was probably going to be selected as his Day of Atonement.

He had adapted. Being half a head taller than the average Autobot helped, as did his carefully thought-out method of flying into the middle of war zones with guns blazing and paint shining and confidant laughter ringing from his radio broadcaster. It didn't earn him friends-he had to rely on tried-and-trusted charm to do that- but it did send out the right message to all enemy spectators; Fear me.

It wasn't, technically, the best thought-out survival plan in the world. Nor was it reasoning that High Command would have approved of. But it did earn respect, in teaspoons, and, in an odd way, it worked. For a few, shining moments, he could convince himself that it was real, all the confidence, all the power. He was in is element, immortal, and no one could stop him. The illusion usually lasted four minutes at most, after which some less-than-dumb slagger would think to aim a few rounds to his wings and, whee! down he would go, but they were important minutes.

And for the rest, he'd practiced shooting. Close-combat fighting was all well and good, and he'd sent a third of his existence engaged in it, but when you got right down to it, a gun in your right hand trumped a blade held to the enemy's main fuel line any day of the vorn.

Recognizing where his talents lay, he'd become a very, very good shot.

He thought, I really want to destroy something. Preferably something that looks like Optimus.

And then casually vaporized another spy.

Optimus was currently engaged in an activity he called 'discussing matters with the men'. Jetfire suspected that most of them didn't see the point in this. He certainly didn't. Especially seeing as Optimus had made a point of not inviting him to the meeting, a fact which was the source of most of his current ill-humor.

He would have been burning off his frustrations in the air. Would have, had it not been for Optimus' stern command -which, for all its sternness, looked rather more like a poorly-disguised plea- to remain within a click of the command centre. Another spy went to its premature death.

Fifteen minutes later, temper under control, Jetfire returned to HQ. He had known Optimus for the majority of his life, and was good at judging just how long it would be in any given situation before his friend needed help. Generally, the sort of help required would turn out to be therapeutic.

A hearty cry assailed his audios. A grin flourished unexpectedly on his face, and he turned to greet the approaching mech.

"Heya, Smokes."

'Hearty', in fact, summarized most of Smokescreen's mannerisms. A wide, genuine grin split the shorter mech's blue face in two. The jolly pat on the back felt more like a wallop.

"Good to see you, sir."

It was almost impossible not to like Smokescreen. Provided you were, of course, an Autobot. And a Cybertronian. And not a stranger. Or an alien. Or a criminal. And, if possible, a ground-bot. Various prejudices aside, once you wheedled your way into his good graces- provided you were an Autobot ground-plodder, this could normally be accomplished with a drink and a bad joke or two- he was as loyal a friend as could ever be desired.

Even if you fell into one of the categories that tended to incur his wroth, it was possible to win the orange mech over. Provided you tried very, very hard and didn't do anything too foreign or peculiar or un-Autobot-ish while he was looking. Jetfire suspected that he matter of his wings alone would be enough to place him into Smokescreen's Strictly To Be Avoided category, were it not for the other matter. That other matter being that he had talked the younger mechanism out of killing himself a few thousand years ago.

Friendship with Optimus helped, too. Smokescreen had been one of Prime's first pupils, and Prime's approval did a lot to earn you points.

Taking stock of the younger mech's appearance (as he was wont to do with Smokescreen), Jetfire noticed that he had gotten himself another few inches of decorative laserwork. Emblazoning one's shell with personal messages and tags had been all the rage a few years ago, until someone had pointed out how much more noticeable it made you in battle. Once rumors that the Decepticons had started a betting pool on how many tattooed Autobots they could take out in one battle had started flying, the trend died down. One or two still continued it, carving small pictures of fragments of prayer into the armor, making the lettering less obvious. Smokescreen had only ever held trace interest in the concept; apart from anything else, it hurt. But now and then, when he was feeling either particularly jovial or particularly melancholy, an inspirational quote or two would appear subtly emblazoned onto his leg or shoulder.

Magnifying the minute, Cybertronian writing on Smokescreen's left thigh, Jetfire could make out the words, '98percentof all Autobots have tried drinking high grade. If you're one of the 2percent that hasn't, carve this into your leg.'

Jetfire's quick and rather cunning subconscious analyzed the greeting, detected what was wrong with it and relayed the message to his rather slower and dim-witted conscious.

"'Sir'…?"

Smokescreen looked at him, and then the grin got wider. And then it broke into a laugh.

"Jetfire, don't tell me you haven't heard!" he chuckled heartily. "It came over the radio just a few minutes ago. Have to say, I was pretty impressed."

And then an odd, icy feeling began to gathering the pit of Jetfire's fuel tank.

The Base Commander's door was made out of reinforced titanium. Because there are members, in any hierarchy, no matter how benign, who occasionally give in to paranoia, it was also almost as thick as it was wide.

Which was the only reason it didn't splinter under Jetfire's fist.

"OPTIMUS!"

At the other end of the corridor, two member's of the base's newly skeletal crew looked up. Taking in the sight of an enormous squad commander, fists aquiver with fury, they decided that retreat would be the better part of valour, and instantly disappeared.

The com next to the door crackled and a tentative voice said, "…Jetfire? Is that you?"

"No, it's Decepticon Air Commander Starscream and I've come for your soul. Let me IN, you SLAGGER."

"…Very well. But please try to restrain yourself."

Something in Jetfire's neck made a whirring sound of disbelief. Closing his eyes, he paused to envisage the sky, a drink and his best friend's charred corpse hanging from a flagpole. Fervour slightly cooled, he stormed into the Base Commander's office.

The first sight of it almost drowned the rage in amazement. He had seen many offices in his life, ranging from the dank, twisted pit of horrors that was Hacksaw's and the shrine to ultra-minimalism that belonged to Optimus. But he had never seen gold edging before.

Prime's love of tidiness had already begun to sink its relentless tendrils into the room. Jetfire doubted that the holographic battle-projector plates had ever been filed with such ruthless efficiency by the previous commander.

Optimus sat hunched over the round table, his head in his hands. A trickle of pity found its way into Jetfire's breast. Then the rage came back.

"You", he hissed, and advanced like the Spirit of Avenging Death.

"Jetfire, I'm asking you as a friend. I need your help."

Hearing Optimus Prime plead was a rare and peculiar thing.

"Everyone seems to think that I'm completely equipped to handle this sort of responsibility. I'm hopelessly out of my depth! I know it's just a temporary role, but there's so many things to attend to. I can't give half the people who currently need my help a quarter of the attention they need."

He rubbed his optics, looking as though the last twenty-four hours had aged him more than the last million years of his life.

"They're all worried, Jetfire. This attack on Nexus has come completely out of the blue. And Rapheal! I was speaking to a young recruit earlier and he told me that he's got a bondmate living there! And now they're saying that we're going to be hit next! You were always far better at calming younger mechs down than me."

Jetfire's disagreements with this fact were muffled by the duct tape.

"It's not as though they've left us completely on our own. I've got several promising young soldiers on hand to rearrange patrol routes and check over the city's security. I haven't received any further word from the officers yet, but I'm sure I will soon. And I'll put in a good word for you with Commander Hook. You could do well to earn yourself a few points with the higher ups, old friend. You know that. And, who knows, we might even receive a promotion each! And you did say you wanted to take a break from squad command for a few days."

Optimus folded his arms.

"So, what do you say? And please don't start swearing this time."

He carefully removed the duct tape covering Jetfire's head. As his friend's voice was jut as loud with the mask on as it was with it off, he'd been unsure as to just where Jetfire's voice was projected from. In the end, he'd had to cover all eventualities. Which was why Jetfire's head now resembled a big, grey lollipop.

When, at last, all the tape had been removed, Jetfire grunted and said, "Okay. Fine. Whatever. Will you just untie me now, please?"

Prime's optics glowed with satisfaction. "As you wish, Vice Substitute Base Commander Jetfire."

The Decepticons had never had a High Council. They wouldn't have survived the first eight seconds.

The inactivity was beginning to get to him. He shifted from foot to foot. He polished his guns. He paced. He thought about firing some shots off at the clouds, but was told, very clearly, that this would earn him a swift death. He considered starting a fight with one of the others, but the options were limited at best. Currently, they included a small communications officer, who looked like she would be about as much fun to fight as a dead sheep, the creepy green guy who'd just been brought in, and Megatron himself. The latter was obviously out, and baiting the creepy green guy had earned him a scathing reprimand that had served only to sour his temper.

He decided to double-check the explosives instead.

Night reigned over Iacon, as it would for another thirteen hours.