The worst part, in Skywarp's opinion, was the grit in his joints.

Or the way dust coated his intake.

Or the sun beating down till his whole body burned.

Or the constant, throbbing pain from his wing.

Or the unbearable glare from the endless dunes of copper granules which made his vision blur into one big, overexposed, lens flare.

"Maybe they're all the worst—" Skywarp cut off as a blast of furnace-hot wind whipped past, leaving him spitting out sand. Yet somehow it didn't cool him off.

Yep, they're ALL the worst, Skywarp thought in the safety of his head.

His head wasn't good for much. But it could shelter his thoughts, if not his body.

Skywarp hooked one hand over the padded strap of his flight harness, shading his optics with the other. Endless dunes sprawled before him. He tried to picture how they would've looked from overhead, how they had looked—the landscape unfolding beneath him as he lurched through the air, gazing down at golden wind-etched ripples stretching from horizon to horizon. Skywarp had flown this route a hundred times. He'd walked it zero times.

Well, he would just have to start. Right now.

He began struggling up the nearest dune, tallest too, backsliding with each step. He fanned his wings wildly to keep his balance, but his servos proved more helpful. They sunk into the sand as he clawed his way up, leaning forward at such an angle that he was basically on all fours. The cable dragging behind, occasionally tangling around his legs or tripping him. Once the carabiner at the end got stuck around his pointy little stick of a heel ("You're the ugliest flier I've ever seen," the Overseer often said, "and that's saying something") and he nearly rolled downhill trying to kick it free. But he didn't dare discard it. Instead he bunched up the rope in one hand and hunched his way up the rest of the slope.

Finally reaching the top, he teetered to his feet.

He'd hoped to see an oasis. An outpost. A road.

Instead he saw more sand, more dunes.

Rarely, very rarely the monotonous landscape was broken by huge outcroppings of dull metal.

Maybe he could make it to one of them. But then what? His chest moved in a slow heave as he tried to think. It was so fragging hot.

Suddenly something caught his optic—a glint that was more silver than copper, a movement that was sharper, more defined, than the wind-blasted dust sweeping across the desert.

Other mecha were dangerous. They might hurt him, capture him, sell him. All the fliers in the camp knew to stay away from strange mecha. It was just common sense.

Skywarp skidded down the slope, optics fixed on the distant gleam.


Skyfire was enjoying his—their?—day out, even if the heat had his cooling fans blasting constantly. It was hard to believe that the sun beating so harshly against the sand was the same celestial body that spread such gentle rays over the silver towers of Vos. Heat radiated up from the sand, making them shimmer distantly.

Nearby, Starscream crouched in front of a monolithic rock. Unlike the bright copper granules of the dunes, it was dull and black, etched with grooves. On the northern side of the rock, minute green crystals grew in those thin crevices. Starscream's head was twisted practically upside-down in an attempt to study them, and he had a monocle-like lens scrunched in his eye the better to study them.

He looks happy,Skyfire thought. Perhaps he was the only bot in the world who would've thought so, since Starscream was visibly scowling and his wings occasionally stuttered in a nervous twitch.

It was all a matter of perspective.

Back home, whether Starscream was socializing in the halls of the Winglord or crowding into the gallery to watch the Vosian Senate, he maintained a smile as smooth as fine wine, wings held ever high.

The first month he'd worked for Starscream, Skyfire had been in awe of him . . . and, embarrassing to admit, a little jealous. As a Noble-in-Waiting, Starscream's job was literally to do nothing; Skyfire, who'd spent most of his life as a cargo-hauler, couldn't help but envy such an extravagant, layabout lifestyle. Starscream's life was a whirl of parties and galas where he laughed with and toasted his fellow Nobles, all of them so charming and well-mannered, always smiling. And Starscream smiled the widest of all.

Starscream had other hobbies too; he asked (told) Skyfire to take him to the Royal Library sometimes, or the Apex Flight Field to practice his flying. But Starscream chose to do those things, he didn't haveto. And even when Starscream decided he wanted to practice his flying, he wouldn't deign to fly to the landing pad on his own wings.

That was exactly why Skyfire was employed, so he wasn't going to complain about it. Or anything else, realistically. Toting around a single passenger beat hauling loads of steel beams any day—and on top of that the pay was better.

Besides, his envy was secondary to his awe. It was rare that a shuttle got to see the Nobles up close. Their legs were just as slim as in the holovids, their thin bodies practically dwarfed by their long, tapering, expressive wings.

It was the wings that he'd noticed that night as he stood patiently on the balcony with the other transport mechs. He'd been surreptitiously watching the Nobles from his spot in the elevated parking lot, his optical sensors roaming over the sleek, beautiful bots who gleamed with polish and chimed with jewels. They were so elegant that Skyfire couldn't help but be proud that Vos, his city, had produced such creatures.

A bevy of servant-bots, all well-polished and wearing the same color paint, had glided out balancing platters of hor d'oeuvres on their fingertips, followed by Windsheer, the Noble throwing the party. The field of narrow, gleaming wings had turned in unison to greet him.

All except a pair of narrow amber wings which abruptly swung sideways as their owner lunged at Starscream.

Skyfire, from his distant perch, sat uselessly in alt mode, frozen and disbelieving. That glint of metal in the amber Seeker's hand couldn't be a knife, she couldn't really be attacking Starscream, Starscream couldn't really be grappling and rolling and clawing like a common street fighter as his fellow aristocrats scattered to leave an empty circle around him, he couldn't still be smiling,rictus though it was.

Gaining the upper hand, Starscream had pinned his assailant to the marble floor and driven his knife (he had a knife too?) into her helm in frantic thrusts until she laid still in a growing pool of energon. The rest of the nobles parted silently to make room for Starscream as he stood, stumbling back from the corpse.

"Well," said Windsheer, who'd just seen a bot stabbed to death on his balcony. He motioned towards two of the servants, who minced forward to pick up the dead bot by the arms and legs, showing no visible distress as they carried her limp form away. Two more servants followed them, scrubbing up the trail of blood. "First assassination attempt of the season, eh?"

"I swear, it gets earlier every year," a midnight blue bot said, sipping his drink.

"That was Nova Gleam, wasn't it? Wouldn't have thought she'd kick things off."

"Or be the first to kick the bucket." A gleaming gold femme picked a whipped energon concoction from a passing platter. "Nice reflexes, Starscream."

"Don't get cocky, though," the midnight blue bot said, smiling. "Nova Gleam is—ahem, was—better known for her finish than her brains."

"Rest assured that a more polished attempt would have had the same end," Starscream smiled back, making a show of wiping his knife on a tablecloth before returning it to his subspace. A servant hurried over to tossle the blood off him with a soft towel. He remained at the party until it was well past its zenith, smiling all the while.

He was still smiling when he took his leave and stepped into Skyfire's cargo hold. Skyfire closed his hatch on the outside world and waited for Starscream to take his usual place, the well-cushioned seat in Skyfire's forward section. But Starscream sank against the wall of the cargo hold, long elegant legs pulled tight against his chest, wings rattling against the floor as he began to shake. And he stayed like that the whole trip home, shaking and smiling fixedly at nothing.

Skyfire, for his part, had been too bewildered and frightened to comfort or question his employer.

The next day Starscream strutted about as normal, wings high and proud, and the gossip sheets said Nova Gleam of the Noble Caste had suffered "an unfortunate accident."

Sky Lynx, the friend and fellow shuttle who had pointed him towards this "cushy" job, was as condescending as Starscream in his own way. "Goodness, Skyfire, I thought you knew. That's just how Nobles are."

"They're murderers?"

"They don't murder, they assassinate," Sky Lynx corrected. "And only each other. They all want to get in the Senate . . . Many candidates, few seats, you know. It's hardly our concern. Don't worry; you're a handsome fellow (if not as handsome as myself). Just keep yourself polished and provide a steady ride, and your services will be in demand even if your current Noble, ahem, becomes permanently indisposed."

Skyfire returned to his post and tried to remain detached. It should have been easy, given that Starscream barely remembered that his ride was sentient, offering no conversation besides curt instructions on where he wanted to go .

But Skyfire couldn't stop thinking about Starscream's silent terror that night, his long arms wrapped around himself as though he was afraid he'd rattle himself apart if he let go.

How sad, Skyfire thought, How could you ever trust another bot if everyone in your caste wants to kill you?

But he wasn't of Starscream's caste.

It was an audacious thought, possibly an illegal one. His job was just to provide transport after all . . .

"Sir," he said one day. (Starscream jerked his head away from the passenger window he'd been gazing out of and stared around in shock.) "Did you know there's a library in the Mid-Levels, near the Science Institute?"

Starscream's optics narrowed; he cast a wary gaze around Skyfire's cockpit, unsure where to settle his scathing look. "And why would a bot of my stature venture down there?" he said finally. "I'm not paying you to lollygag in slums, you go where I want you to go."

"They're not slums." Skyfire was unable to keep the reproach out of his voice. When he'd hauled cargo he had dreamed about living in Mid-Vos, with its clean streets and lovely parks. "Of course I'll take you wherever you wish. But they have an extensive science wing, and since it's summer . . ." He trailed off expectantly, but Starscream just frowned in apparent confusion instead of completing thought. "Since it's summer, the library will be empty." For good measure, Skyfire added, "Because the students are on break."

"Well, obviously they're on break. I knew that." Starscream's wings broke out of their usual upright position to flick impatiently. "The Mid-Levels," he murmured, becoming pensive as his wings shifted. "I don't suppose any of my dear brethren deign to set a pede down there."

Skyfire's engine rumbled in agreement. "I used to transport supplies there regularly and I never once saw a Noble on the premises."

Starscream frowned out the window–or perhaps at his reflection in the glass. Then he pulled himself straight in his seat. "Ahem! Shuttle, I've decided on a new destination for this trip. The Library of the Science Institute."

"Of course, sir." Internally, he smiled. "My name's Skyfire, by the way."

Starscream's mouth worked like he wasn't sure what was supposed to do with this information. "Well. Skyfire, then."

It was a start.


"Skyfire!" Skyfire started awake; apparently he'd fallen asleep in the shade of the great basalt stone. As he rubbed the sleep out of his optics, he noted Starscream–the source of the noise, of course–gesturing for him to come over. "Skyfire, I said bring me a glass flask!"

"Certainly, Starscream." Skyfire stretched. The sun was significantly lower in the sky than he remembered. "Sorry, I must have dozed off."

"Obviously." He held out a hand expectantly, his optics fixed on the seam of gems which he'd already begun to cut into with a laser-cutter.

"You could have picked up a flask yourself," Skyfire said mildly, "before you started."

"That's what you're for. To help me," Starscream said. "And to guard me."

"Starscream," Skyfire said gently, "I'm just a transport."

Starscream scowled, ostensibly at the crystals. "You drive a hard bargain, shuttle. But fine. I'll double your salary."

"Money is not the issue here. And I would prefer it if you called me by my name."

"Skyfire." Starscream's countenance went from haughty to worried in an instant; his wings drooped. "Please reconsider. Everyone's whispering that Senator Stormdust's rusty old aft is finally about to dive into the Allspark–necrosis of the fuel pump–and . . . and you can't imagine what it's going to be like after that. The knives will be out."

A knife clenched in Starscream's hand, a blur of silvery arcs as he stabbed down, down, down again.

"But I don't even have any weapons," Skyfire said helplessly. "I . . . I don't know if it would even be legal for me to take a job like that. Can't you just leave town until everything blows over?"

Starscream looked at him as though he'd sprouted a second helm. "How am I supposed to compete for his spot if I leave town? I have to prove myself."

Skyfire sighed internally. "You could hire a bodyguard," he suggested. "Moonfire did."

"So did Lightspark. And a fat lot of good it did him when someone bribed his new employee to stand aside," Starscream grumbled. "Dead in his bed."

"You should at least think about it."

"I suppose you're right. I'm sorry I'm such a mess today . . . " Starscream rubbed his arms. The sun was on the horizon now, painting furls of gold and red across Starscream's silver gloss. Skyfire looked down at his own white plating; not as reflective as Starscream's, but he too was bathed by the sunset. He glanced up and found Starscream looking at him too.

"Skyfire." Starscream drew the word out slowly, as though testing it for the first time. He fiddled with his claws. "That does suit you far more than 'shuttle.'"

Skyfire knew it was an apology. Maybe it's more than that . . . ? No. That was ridiculous. Dangerous. "Thank you, Starscream. And you know, it's all right to be a mess sometimes."

"For some," Starscream grimaced, "but not me. I can't let my guard down."

A fond smile was already forming on Skyfire's lips.

He was about to say: there's no one out here that can hurt you.

The words fell from his processor and the smile from his lips as a shadowy figure with a familiar, elegant frametype stepped around the boulder . . . a lithe body, thin limbs, wings long, narrow, and knife-sharp against the setting sun.

An assassin! Skyfire thought, panicked.

"Hey," the assassin said, "you guys got any energon?"