Six years after a dogfight with a Ghost Plane that ended Lieutenant Free's NFO career; he can only seem to dwell on moments of the last time he saw his best friend Tucker, and his F-14 Tomcat. ~ A spry femme Seeker named SkyLine finds herself making deals with the devil and biting off more than she can chew, but she may have a friend on the inside. Will she stay true to her Wings, or will she fall to her own greed? But there's a new element, a human element that Skyline knows: not to underestimate one driven by hate.
"The Cloud's Silver Lining" is fiction work about Loving What Was Lost, PTSD/the Horrors of War, and Trusting the Untrustable.

Mid 2006, Iraq Restricted Airspace.

NFO Lieutenant Clint L. Free was enjoying the sunset as he sat back in the seat of his F-14 Tomcat, cruising slowly on autopilot over the Iraqi landscape. His chin rested against his fist, elbow on the control stick as his other hand paused from his journal notes in his lap. An action he was sure if his flight trainer could see, they would be spitting down the back of his neck.

But he had been deployed for almost three years now, and this was his second TomCat. Thankfully he hadn't lost the first to a fight, but simply from the fact that this style of military aircraft hated to land. He didn't blame them. It was beautiful up here, away from everything that the ground could chase him down and overrun him with. War, politics, family, social interaction-

"Free? You asleep there?"

Well, maybe not the last one. Clint sighed, and clicked his headset microphone back down near his mouth.

"No, just daydreaming."

"What happened to looking for insurgents?"

"Tucker, the only thing we'd remotely see to an insurgent up here is if a hodgie went for a magic carpet ride."

There was a 'pssh!' from the other end; Clint looking back at the other F14 cruising along beside him, slightly behind. It was almost exact to his own: matte grey with black accent, a big gladiator holding a spear on the tail fins that cut through the air, cute gold accents.

Almost.

You could name your fighter if you served with her longer than a year. NFO Lieutenant Tucker V. Harrison had basically branded his aircraft with a bold green, military front " LADY DEATH " under his cockpit. Like some sort of weak craft beer you could get in the deep state of Ohio. It practically dripped with the sort of man Tucker was, which wasn't offensive, but just wasn't Clint's style.

Clint enjoyed the subtle, small things. The smell before that first sip of coffee. The sounds of rain pouring down on a tin roof. The innocence of kind laughter... In beautiful calligraphy he had spent endless nights trying to master; he had a gently painted name under his cockpit. It was in a silver just enough off on the base color that one wouldn't see it until you were almost standing atop it.

"What are you going to do when we get back home?"

Clint squirmed uncomfortably, he hated small talk but this topic was the worst.

"I dunno."

"Clint, we ship back in less than two weeks and your contract is up in six months! How the hell could you not know?"

"It just… I don't know yet." He said, glancing over at the other plane to see the visor of Tucker looking back, "I haven't thought that far ahead."

"You, the king of overthinkers? I'm calling bullshit. C'mon, cough it up."

There was silence as Clint looked across the cockpit. He could see it, remembering every detail. He saw this place in his dreams. He could remember every flight he flew, every dive he took. Every time he rolled the plane belly up above the water in the night, to see the stars reflect across it wings-

"Clint." Tucker's voice brought him out of his daydream, and he twitched his head slightly.

"I… I dunno. I was maybe hoping I could… keep flying. Maybe they won't disband all the F-14s. Maybe I'll get to stay-" His voice cracked, and Clint promptly shut down. He was horrified that he had broken so easily in front of his comrade, staring as the sun finally touched the edge of the world before him. A final sunset. How fitting , he thought bitterly, blinking the tears out of his coffee-colored eyes.

"Clint…" Tucker's voice was empathetic, but it only stung to the other pilot. "Look, that offer to come fly private jets with me? That still stands. Hey, maybe you can get lucky and the DOD will save a few for museum show flights?"

"Yeah. maybe…" Clint knew better.

"Free, Harrison, this is the ground command. How's it all going up there? Over."

Clint lifted his visor, wiping his eyes and clearing his throat, but Tucker answered for them.

"Doing good, Command. What's the canteen serving tonight? Over. "

"Well I'd say for once, you guys with the MREs are the lucky ones tonight. Over."

Clint made a laugh, and then taped into the conversation, recognizing the female voice, "Too much curry for your delicate stomach, command? Over."

There was a pause, and then a gentle laugh of an answer. "No, but maybe for you. Over."

"Ooo, she's snippy." Tucker said over the private line, making Clint snort, and look over… to spot a glint. He squinted, and lifted his visor, watching before seeing a glint again.

"Tucker, 2 o'clock, look. Do you see that?"

"Hold up, wha-" There was a silence, then, "Is that another jet?"

"Command this is Free, is anyone else out here in airspace with us? Over."

"Negative. Over."

"Looks like someone found a flying carpet." Tucker said gravely, and Clint watched his plane tremble slightly, signifying autopilot switch off. Clint quickly put his notebook away, strapping his bag shut and grabbed the controls before the two flew down.

It was another F-14, but the different colors and writing told Clint it was part of Iran's air force. It flew like it had jitters. An unspoken word went between the two, and Clint slowly got behind it, Tucker flying above.

"Unidentified bogey, this is SpearHead-2-1, identify. Over." Clint stated firmly.

No answer. The plane jittered a little more, as if it had hit turbulence, but Clint didn't feel it. Tucker tipped his plane sideways a little bit.

"The cockpit is still… too tinted, I can't see a pilot in this light."

"Unidentified bogey, this is SpearHead-2-1, I command you to identify. You are in restricted airspace. Over."

The plane ahead of him leveled out, and Tucker had now turned all the way upside down above it. Clint glared up at him, irritated he was fucking around at a time like this.

"Wait… I see something… There's someone hunched over the controls."

"Are they responsive?"

"I don't think so. They look asleep...?"

"Can you see frost?"

"Hold on… yeah, fuck. He's dead. The bird must be on autopilot."

Clint sighed, shaking his head and started to fall back a little. "Command, this is Free. We have an Irani F-14 with a deceased pilot in the cockpit. How would you have us proceed? Over."

"A deceased pilot? One moment, over." There was silence, and Clint sat back. He wondered what had happened, had there been a failure in the oxygen system? Had they tried to escape and bleed out on autopilot? Was it maybe a bomber? Come to think of it…

"Tucker, what's dead ahead in the distance?"

"Uh, not much? Sand, the canal, africa-"

"Fuck, it might be a failed attack attempt. Command, this is Free. The plane is heading for a beeline towards the Suez. Do we have permission to engage? Over."

"I thought you stated the pilot was dead? Over."

"Statement is correct, command." Tucker popped in, slowly rotating his plane to be directly under Iran's F-14, "But the bird has a full loadout. It's busting to the brim with artillery. It would be a big boom if it lost gas and nose dived into a city, over."

"Account taken in, we are attempting contact with Iran forces. Keep tailing it, over."

Clint could agree with that, watching the ship tremble and jerk in the non existent turbulence. He leaned forward, staring at it, wondering the fate of the poor sap driving it. Tucker seemed to be doing the same thing, slowly rotating around the unmanned jet like the moon around the earth.

"Would you cut that out?"

"What, you afraid it's gonna-"

The ship ahead of them jerked and there was a horrendous feedback through Clint's headset. He jerked his hands up, screaming in a surprised agony as it rattled his brain. The sound was over but echoing through his mind like a shout in a barrel. He couldn't hear anything, not even the sound of his battle system engaging as suddenly, the Irani F-14 nosedived in front of him.

Tucker was faster to react, diving after it, and as Clint's hearing came back he could hear him rattling, "Command this is Tucker! The ghost plane is diving, over!"

"Diving?"

"Yes, diving! All rudders and wings are moving. Something's fucking moving it!"

Clint engaged, diving with his comrade and the rogue plane. It was descending so fast, faster than anything Clint had ever seen from an F-14 before, and they were losing distance by the second. Hastily, he fired rounds, and it seemed Tucker had a similar thought. The rogue very suddenly pulled up and jerked, making a wide turn away from the two and avoiding the shots.

"Shit!" he cursed, groaning as he pulled the ship out of the dive and into a turn. By the time they had started the turn, the F-14 had already turned around and was coming back, unleashing hell upon them. He and Tucker banked in opposite directions.

"What the fuck is going on?!"

"Tucker, Free, report. Over."

"I don't know what the Irani's did to this plane but it's a lot faster than we are!" Clint was leveling out, finally finding his target and seeing it give chase to Tucker. He pushed into the accelerate, his blood roaring and ears ringing. The plane he commanded didn't hesitate, soaring through the air like a knife and allowing him to line up. Tucker was far enough away, and he pulled the trigger, peppering the wings and cockpit with bullets as he flew past it, almost kissing wings.

It shuttered, but did not seem to take any heavy damage.

Tucker was good with his F-14, but he had six months less time in it than Clint did, and outmaneuvering was never his strong suit coming from training on a much more nimble plane. By the time Clint had turned around, he could see the Irani plane was hammering it with bullets. Clint decided to line up again.

"Tucker, get ready to brake!"

"I'm already ready to brake, fucking hurry! I've got alarms blaring I've never wanted to hear!"

Clint leaned into his controls, his plane heeding to him. He was praying, pleading that this would be the shot. All he needed to do with crack the goddamn cockpit-

There was a boom, and Tucker's airplane started to smoke. Clint's heart soared to his throat, his hands becoming clammy.

"Brake, brake! BRAKE!"

There was a roar of effort across the radio as Tucker pulled the plane to a sharp brake. The attacking plane started to correct, but to it's mistake, lined up perfectly for Clint.

"Eat shit!" Clint said, pulling the trigger. The bullets hammered the wings and body again, and as he passed over, he saw the cockpit had taken a direct hit and shattered to pieces. "Got him!"

The plane started to drop, and he was quick to bank, ready for any resistance. He was right to be ready, as the plane only dropped for a moment before it's engine sputtered and roared. He could see the heat light reflected inside its jets. He realized, in horror, the cockpit was indeed gone… and so was the pilot.

"What the FUCK?!" Clint screamed, his stomach twisting.

"Clint, I'm losing fuel!" Tucker said, and the enemy jet sprung forward again. It cut through the air unnaturally, turning like no plane should. It shouldn't have been able to move, there was no fucking pilot! In his shock, he didn't realize that the F-14 was coming for him, and only snapped out of it as his own jet suddenly descended sharply. Bullets sprayed the air where he had been.

Reflexes saved me again, he thought, but didn't remember dipping the plane on his own. He shook his head, and started to lift and bank.

"Holy fuck… where's it pilot! Where's it's fucking pilot?!" Tucker must have seen it.

"Disengage, Tucker! I'll get him!" Clint said, making chase. His brain was spinning with questions, his heart hammering in his chest. What was going on? Was this a remote pilot? Did Iran have this sort of ability? Was it even Iran?

The offender wasn't even interested in him again, as if somehow it had heard Tucker and started to chase him again as the other fled. Clint realized that Tucker's wings were at an awkward angle, the flaps must have stuck! There was no way he could make it with gas or not. Clint wasn't about to let this happen, chasing the enemy down and started to lay into it. But it didn't stutter or even slow, and Clint was realizing it was trying to put Tucker into friendly fire range.

"Tucker, brake! Brake!"He stated, his voice a panic. After a silence he realized Tucker wasn't responding, only breathing heavily and whispering something… he was praying.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God."

"Tucker! Brake, Now!" The F-14 was getting closer, and Clint was basically breathing in it's exhaust fumes. His hands hover over the trigger, waiting for Tucker to move away into safety.

"Pray for us sinners."

""TUCKER! SNAP OUT OF IT!"

" Now and at the hour of our death." Something had deployed from the belly of the plane that appeared to be a cannon, and he saw it starting to charge with an unnatural purple. Clint could only watch in horror as he realized what hell had been unleashed upon them.

"TUCKER! EJECT, NOW!"

"Amen."

There was a boom as a white bolt shot from the belly and Clint could only watch in horror as Tucker and Lady Death evaporated. He couldn't even hear his own scream as the noise was so loud, but his pilot brain must have been working as he narrowly avoided getting hit by debris. The enemy plane has veered off as well, out of vision.

Clint felt himself inhale, and scream again. His partner's death flashed before his eyes a second time as his brain burned it into his memory. He turned his plane to watch Tucker go down in a ball of flames. But in the distance, he could see the enemy jet also rounding around, as if getting a look at it's kill. It stopped, completely hovering mid-air.

"What the fuck are you? WHAT ARE YOU?!" Clint screamed at it, flying the plane but keeping his head locked on his enemy. It didn't answer, but the nose unnaturally turned towards him. He was shaking, tears running down his cheek, grieving his friend but burning in rage at the unfairness. A Ghost Plane . Something he'd only heard of, but assumed they had only been old aviator ghost stories.

He didn't notice all the internal lights of his plane had turned a burning sunset yellow.

Inhaling through a sob, he leaned into the controls, screaming in rage as his plane shot forward. The enemy shot towards him, a suicide run as he pulled down on his trigger and started a deathspin. The weapon on the belly charged, and fired.

The world seemed to slow for him, Clint coming out of the spin and jerking the plane up slightly to get out of the way, never letting go of the trigger. He passed over the top of the enemy plane, looking up through his glass to indeed see that the cockpit was gone, and there was no pilot. He did, however, notice all the internal lights were red and purple.

There was a beeping, and he realized his ammo was running low. But Clint's heart was already set, he would go to hell and drag this plane down with him kicking and screaming. Releasing the trigger, he rounded back to see the enemy plane had already done so. He didn't know how, but at this moment in time, he didn't care.

Pitching the nose down, his F-14 started to scream for the earth before he pulled the controls back up with a roar. The plane groaned like it was in agony as he did, and soon he was looking up at the descending Ghost. The Ghost was charging it's cannon again, but it wouldn't get the chance to fire. As Clint pulled down on the trigger, releasing his last bit of ammo, a bullet struck the underbelly of the plane, and the cannon went dark.

Now all that was left was total impact. Tucker's death burned behind his eyelids, a man he had always been so annoyed with… but despite how many times Clint pushed him away, had always come back with more and more kindness. More than he had ever felt in his lifetime. And now, it was gone.

"If I live through this, Tucker, I-"

"You will, Pilot Free." A female voice cut through his helmet, one he had never heard before and it stopped him in his tracks. His eyes widened, taking his eyes off his enemy and looking down at his cockpit out of habit, now realizing the color had changed. "I'll take this one to hell for you."

There was a hissing pop, and suddenly Clint was soaring. His hand grabbed nothing in front of him as he had been ejected, shooting out and away. The seat found stability merely a second later, and he looked in time to see his dear F-14 collide with the Ghost, and a massive explosion filled his vision.

Clint crossed his arms in front of him as the explosion sent his seat into a death spin, him screaming from the G-force. Blindly, he pulled his chute, and jerked as it caught wind, stopping the spinning and starting his descent to the ground. He tasted iron in his mouth, and his head was spinning. Looking up again, he could see the remnants of the explosion, and two giant masses of the planes slowly falling to the ground.

For a moment, Clint thought he saw the planes starting to crumple from nothing, but he did not see any more as his chair suddenly impacted with the ground, and he was knocked out.

Thank you for reading! It has been almost 10 years since I have written for Transformers Prime; how my life has changed! I hope if you are a long time reader of my works that you enjoy yourself with this new fic much like you have the rest.
A huge thank you to AltariaofAmana for his information on Jet Fighters, Huntress2002 for her editing, and SilentFlame & Olympus36 for their love of TransFormers! Please feel free to join us on discord! /TBhcfSVV
Hope to see you in the next chapter, and don't forget to fav and review!