The flight from Peru to the Ark was so difficult that Skyfire wasn't sure he would make it. He had never in his life been so tired as he was at the moment they landed. He ached all over, his body protesting the mistreatment it had received over the last few days.
He'd been thawed from the ice after something like 9 million of this planet's years, shot, repaired, in a dogfight with the only mech he knew on this planet, crashed and refrozen, thawed and put to work by the Autobots without so much as a by your leave and then shot again, repair by one of the planet's natives and put right back to work. He'd not signed up for this.
The Autobots seemed grateful enough for his help but they didn't seem to care that he was not built for this kind of activity. But then, neither did they. He'd listened to their idle chatter on the flight back, anything to keep from going offline, and got the feeling that a good number of them were in the same boat, exhausted, unhappy with their lot, reluctant fighters most of them but doing the best they could.
He set down where directed.
"Hey, Skyfire," someone said. "You can transform now, we're all unloaded."
"Oh, all right. Thank you," the jet answered slowly. He hadn't even realized he'd shut down. Afterall, it'd barely been a breem since they'd landed.
Someone rapped his landing gear. "Skyfire, you're clear." That was Brawn's voice.
"Yes, yes." He'd fallen asleep again.
"You okay?" Bluestreak.
"Yes, just tired," he answered and transformed as quickly as he could. He ended up on his feet but leaning forward, arms wrapped around his cockpit, which ached badly, covering the hole Starscream had blown in him...again.
"Well, you look like slag," Bluestreak said. "When was the last time you got some recharge?"
Skyfire glanced at him. "About 9 million years ago," he said and pitched forward onto his faceplate.