Greetings! See, I didn't leave you hanging tooo terribly long.

Congratulations goes to Anodythe,who wrote the 1,000 review!

Initially, I was going to post the winning story along with this chapter, but that would have required I wait even longer so I could get them both finished. And besides, that story will actually fit within or between chapters 46 and 47. So I figured better to post this one now. Just a heads up, there will be plenty of Ironhide and sparkling fluff coming when I get that story posted…

And almost 50 reviews for chapter 44! You guys are awesome! And I have read every single one and each one is greatly appreciated. At this rate, I'll be posting the announcement for the contest for the 1,500th review sooner than I would have thought possible. Wow.

Anyway, I know I have already left you waiting long enough. So, without further delay; Chapter 45.

Warning(s): Character dealing with having to take a life and two actual cuss words... actually it is the same word used twice. But it fits. Both times. Also, a scene that some might take to be suggestive, but it really isn't. You will know it when you see it, but please keep minds up and out of the gutter because I do NOT write slash.


/Ultra Magnus is down!/ A voice suddenly screamed across the comm. channels, cutting Prowl off in the middle of a series of complex orders. /And half his escort. We need a medic!/

Unfortunately, the mere couple of seconds delay caused by the untimely interruption of that announcement meant that Prowl's evasive orders to a flight of Aerialbots did not get transmitted in time to prevent eight of the nine from getting shot from the sky. Likewise, his orders to the snipers covering the Autobots to the south of the outpost were delayed just long enough that the Decepticon's sniper successfully took out half a dozen mechs in that unit.

Thankfully, Longshot was competent in his function and managed to down the enemy sharpshooter before even more damage could be done.

But it deteriorated from there.

With victory over the Aerialbots, the Decepticons managed to start pushing back against the Autobot's advance. Where order and control had ruled, now there was chaos as unit discipline started slipping. The field commanders quickly worked to regain control of their units, but it was enough to make Prowl's task exponentially harder.

He was snapping out orders, but the confusion they were still recovering from meant that, of necessity, some of those orders were bypassing the assigned communications and command route. After all, how could an order be passed through Ultra Magnus if he was no longer functioning?

It did not help that roughly a third of his orders were not being carried out. It was almost as if they were either not being heard or not understood.

The effort of restore some semblance of an offensive assault out of the worsening quagmire the mission was rapidly becoming, drove Prowl to his knees as he had to divert more of his processing power to the task.

A little voice in the back of his processor taunted him that this breakdown of discipline would not have happened if he were trusted implicitly.

Prowl did not realize how hard he was having to work to prevent an utter disaster as the Decepticons were quick to take advantage of the Autobot's faltering advance until he was shoved none to gently on the shoulder.

It was Drivetrain. "I said to advance!"

Yes, that was one of the orders he had passed to Drivetrain's unit.

The whole point of a protection detail was that the main unit could move forward until Prowl was in a better position to rejoin the fight. Apparently Drivetrain did not see it that way. And he was Prowl's commander for this mission.

Gritting his denta against the effort, Prowl spared what processing power he could to make himself combat ready. He stood, looking at the large dark blue and gunmetal gray warrior, though only half seeing him as his combat and tactical systems retained the majority of his attention.

"Who has overall command now?" He asked, rather than immediately move back into his assigned place.

Drivetrain snarled and turned away. "Get into position."

Instead Prowl stepped toward him. "I need to know!"

"So you can get him killed to? Not a chance." Drivetrain spun back to him, armor flared aggressively. He pointed toward Prowl's squad. "Get into position or you disobey a direct order." Which is punishable by death, went unsaid.

With a barely audible growl, Prowl bent to snatch up his weapon from where he had dropped it and resumed his place with his squad.

He was greeted with curious silence, but no one asked whatever questions might have been on their processors. Thank Primus for small favors.

Prowl moved forward with his squad, though his battle computers continued to strain to find a way for the Autobots to regain control of the field. Despite what Drivetrain had said, it was soon clear that no one had stepped up as the overall field commander. In fact, further communication from Ultra Magnus' escort – which would have included his second and third in command – was not forthcoming.

That was a bad sign.

Prowl only belatedly realized he was either being blamed for intentionally causing that to happen or was assumed to be incompetent in that he let it happen.

No wonder Drivetrain had been so jumpy.

No wonder only a third of the orders he issued were being followed. Everyone was now making their own judgment as to when, or if, they would follow his direction.

Instantly Prowl knew there was no way for the Autobots to successfully take the Decepticon base like this. In fact, it would be difficult just getting the majority of them back to Iacon alive and functioning. Instead, he set his tactical computer on figuring out how to destroy the base.

It was a command decision, technically only one that Ultra Magnus or his successor should make but, as far as Prowl knew, there was no one else but he to make it. Communication attempts to Ironhide and the rest of Ultra Magnus' escort came back with static

It was imperative that the Decepticons not be allowed to retain control of such an important resource. Chances were slim that if the Autobots left it in their hands that they would have another chance at capturing it, as the base would only be fortified further. He could not justify the loss of lives another assault on this outpost would cost, even though he knew what a violation of regulations he was about to commit.

True to the minor tweak he had made to his reasoning chain the previous night, Prowl did not let himself consider the personal cost this choice might entail.

There were just enough Autobot assets – those who continued to trust him - who were still responding to his commands to make it possible.

Taking in a deep vent, Prowl issued the first set of orders.

… … …

Ratchet knelt next to Ultra Magnus' inert frame. His spark still pulsed, but he was leaking energon at an alarming rate. Large frames like Magnus' had a surprisingly low tolerance for energon loss, though it did take a lot to make them loose energon at all. He would have to get Wheeljack working on a way to counter that tendency, especially as larger mechs seemed to have an affinity for finding trouble. It was a good thing the squad he had been imbedded with had been just behind the Commander's: it had not even taken two breems for them to reach the ambush site.

But his squad of bodyguards had left to help what was left of Ultra Magnus' escort in hunting down the Decepticons suspected of having done this.

He could hear continuing cannon fire at a disconcertingly close distance and sent a request for a location ping to Ironhide, who had been serving with Ultra Magnus' escort as his second in command.

He knew Ironhide had survived the attack that had left four Autobots in serious condition and two dead. He had seen the large black mech charge headlong into a bunch of Decepticons in retaliation for taking out Ultra Magnus. As he had expected, Ironhide's location ping indicated he was in the heart of the nearby firefight.

Shaking his helm, Ratchet quickly spliced another energon line back together. He worked quickly, well aware the battle was still raging. He had just transformed his hand into a laser scalpel to cut away a portion of blackened and scorched plating so he could reach the damaged internals underneath when his proximity sensors gave an alert.

"Well, well, well…" A dark, silky voice reached Ratchet's audios from behind him.

"A medic… all alone." The Decepticon purred as he slinked forward, hard crimson optics flashing.

Ratchet straightened, trying to mute his sudden, rising panic. He turned to face the prowling Decepticon as the mech started to circle. He said nothing, only keeping the lithe frame in his view.

His silence did not seem to divert the mech though. He grinned wickedly. "Ooh, the silent, stoic kind. Lets see if you can keep up the act when I rip you apart piece by piece, medic."

Even as Ratchet frantically tried to recall everything he could about what Prowl had taught him – suddenly realizing how much he still needed to learn – he sent out an urgent signal to Ironhide, calling for help. He prayed it would get there soon enough.

But his signal was cut off before he could finish sending it and the Decepticon chortled, holding up a tiny device. "Trying to call for help, medic?" He flicked the tiny instrument into the rubble around them. "It creates a communication dead-zone. Beautiful, is it not?"

It would be almost impossible to find and deactivate it, Ratchet realized, as it had never appeared on his scanners to begin with.

"Starscream is an arrogant aft, but he has a few good ideas now and then." The Decepticon chortled again. "Now, lets have some fun."

With no other warning, the Decepticon lunged at Ratchet.

Acting on instinct, Ratchet managed to side-step the initial assault, his frame reacting to the threat with a swiftness he never would have been able to conjure if he had to think about it. Even so, he knew his movements were gross and not the refined fighting techniques Prowl was capable of.

He still managed to land a solid blow to the Decepticon's abdominal plating, while only suffering a glancing blow to his own shoulder guard.

The Decepticon snarled, spinning back to face him. "Playing difficult to get, medic?"

Twin energon blades slid into place and locked. They glowed brightly promising pain and death. Ratchet took a step back, lifting his arms defensively.

Bladed combat was not anything he had practiced for yet.

A part of his processor reminded him the Decepticon was only toying with him because he was a medic. If he were any other Autobot, he would have just been shot. No. If possible, they liked to extend the suffering of medics, just because they could. Another part of his processor – the part Prowl had been training – reminded him that the longer he could make the Decepticon fight, the more likely he was to survive.

So he braced himself as the Decepticon attacked again.

Once more, instinct dictated Ratchet's actions and they were broad and unrefined, but effective. He managed to throw the Decepticon away from himself and his patient along with a blow to the helm. That did not mean Ratchet escaped unscathed.

He had suffered a jagged hole cut into his chassis by his shoulder and one of his shoulder guards had been sheared off. The strike that took his shoulder guard would have taken his helm, if not for Prowl's tutelage.

Ratchet shut off pain sensors and turned to face the Decepticon again.

The dark little 'Con was shaking himself off. Ratchet could tell by the way he moved as he stood that the Decepticon was sporting his own injuries.

The ruby optics that turned back to him had lost their sadistic humor, but it had been replaced by cold calculation and simmering fury.

Air was passing through Ratchet's vents in raspy pants as he waited, willing Ironhide to come quickly, for what might come his way next. Peripherally one sensor kept tabs on Ultra Magnus, calculating how much longer he could parry with his would be Decepticon assassin before he had to return to treating his most critically injured patient.

"You think you will fight me, medic? You are nothing. Only the strong survive, you are weak, and serve only to keep the weak alive!" The energon blades disappeared only to have the lower portion of his arm rearrange into an impressive cannon. "Prepare to die."

Slag! Ratchet knew he had no defense against ranged weapons and the nearest piece of rubble that could serve as cover was too far away for him to reach in time.

He wanted to become frantic, but as if he was hearing the mech's voice in his audio, Ratchet replayed Prowl's words from one of their many training sessions. "Your mind, your ability to be in the moment and not loose your wherewithal, will be your greatest asset. Use it."

Ratchet heard himself speaking, sounding far more confident than he felt. He snarled. "What? Afraid you aren't strong enough to rip me apart piece by piece, after all?"

The Decepticon took his time adjusting the weapon. "Oh, I will tear you apart, just like I promised." He made a show of lining up for his shot. "Who said I'm aiming to kill?"

Ratchet heard Prowl's voice again, "…There are other tools besides saws at your disposal that can be used as weapons if needed…"

Time seemed to dilate as those distant words echoed through Ratchet's processor and he suddenly remembered the laser scalpel he had been prepared to use on Ultra Magnus. Such a tool was not effective over long distances, but it was all he had that might counter a ranged weapon.

It was just possible he had never transformed his hand as quickly as he did at that moment. Simultaneously he threw himself to the side just before a blast of hot plasma seared through the air.

Laser scalpels had no ability to be aimed either, but Ratchet did the best he could. He dialed up the strength and power as far as he could, even though he would only be ale to sustain a short burst at that level.

He fired.

"What the frag!" The Decepticon spit, ducking away.

Straightening, the lithe warrior fingered the scorch mark Ratchet's scalpel had left. It was barely a glancing blow.

"You!" Rage flashed through the Decepticon and he snarled, lifting his weapon again.

"Slag!"

Ratchet threw himself to the side again. He barely had time to scramble out of the line of fire a second time. The third time Ratchet threw himself down his optics focused on a discarded weapon. It was one of Ultra Magnus' external blasters.

Ratchet identified the blaster even as he decided he had nothing left to lose.

All previous experience with giving medics weapons without combat protocols had been disastrous. His chances of hitting his target was minimal. But so were the chances of him hitting a friend this time.

Ratchet fumbled with the weapon, trying to disable the safety – thankfully as CMO he knew the access codes for all the senior commander's weapons, in case one needed to be deactivated – even as he heard the sound of running pedes.

His attacker had apparently given up trying to shoot him and was now rushing at him with murder in his optics. The assassin moved so fast, he was already right on top of Ratchet.

Ratchet fired.

He had had no time to even attempt to aim the thing, and was actually in the process of trying to duck down and shield his face from the charging Decepticon, when he depressed the firing mechanism.

It had been foolish, reckless, idiotic… and very, very lucky.

A hole suddenly appeared in the Decepticon's chassis. Only the rapidly closing distance between them had allowed the trembling weapon to actually strike it's target.

Ratchet fired again as red optics filled his vision.

Then he was knocked over, hitting the ground hard enough to stun him.

Belatedly Ratchet registered pain to various parts of his frame, his entire right side and his abdominal plating all felt like they had been caved in. But more troubling than that was the weight holding him to the ground.

For a long moment, Ratchet just lay there, heaving air through his vents, as he struggled to piece together what had just happened. The mass on top of him must be Decepticon that had attacked him. But he was not moving and, if Ratchet's scanners were functioning, he was not even conscious. He remembered firing Ultra Magnus' weapon, the Decepticon charging, and… Oh.

He had killed a mech. Purposefully.

Numbly, Ratchet pushed the limp frame off of himself and struggled to his own pedes. He looked down at the now inert frame of his enemy and felt sick. He was a medic… and he had just taken a life.

It was self-defense. Ratchet tried to tell himself. He would have killed me piece by piece, just like he said… slowly and painfully. And then he would have killed my patients…

"Ultra Magnus!" Ratchet swallowed down the energon that still wanted to back up from his tanks as the full weight of what he had just done settled over him.

And yet the conflict with his core coding was not as serious as what he would have expected… as what it should have been.

"Prowl… what have you turned me into?" The words were whispered, whisked away in the blustering winds that frequented the badlands. "I am a medic."

A medic. With a patient waiting on him.

Ratchet turned around, stumbling in his minor state of shock, trying to orient himself. He found Ultra Magnus' injured and unconscious frame and took an unsteady step toward it when he noticed the presence of nine other mechs.

Despite every intention to the contrary, he was bringing his commandeered weapon up before he belatedly identified their spark signatures. Ironhide, Ultra Magnus' remaining escort and Ratchet's security detail.

He dropped the weapon, sagging with relief.

But that relief did not last. An alert on his scanners had him rushing back to Ultra Magnus' side. Relieved to be able to burry himself in his intended function without distractions, Ratchet began working furiously.

The CMO's focus was entirely on his patient and his job. He did not see how, to a mech, Ironhide and his team just stared at him with slack faceplates.

"You!" Ratchet snapped, pointing to the nearest mech, "Get over here and clamp off this line. Now. You, you and you," he pointed to three other random mechs, "there are three other injured Autobots over there. Start sealing lines and for Primus sake, make sure they don't leak out. Now!"

If said mechs moved with a bit more alacrity than normal, Ratchet pretended not to notice.

He had a job to do; his primary function. He would deal with everything else later.

… … …

Ironhide watched Ratchet work on Ultra Magnus for a long breem and then wondered over to where the off-lined Decepticon now lay as a broken and jumbled pile of limbs.

Gingerly, the black warrior flipped the frame over to inspect it. There was no way to tell how much of the superficial damage was recent, but he sported dented plating, a scorch mark to his chassis and then, of course, two gaping holes. Regardless of how the 'Con had gotten the other minor injuries, Ironhide knew exactly how he had gotten the two blaster shots: from one of the few mechs Ironhide would never have anticipated being able to deliver them.

Dropping the limp arm he had been inspecting, Ironhide made his way back to Ratchet and Ultra Magnus. Ratchet too had suffered in his skirmish with the Decepticon. Half of his right shoulder guard was missing and a non-critical puncture to his cassis, along with generously dented plating.

The CMO was still working single-mindedly, but Ironhide knew the bright mech well enough to be able to see the faint unsteadiness in his hands. Ratchet's hands were never unsteady. Not even when he had taken enemy shots before.

It was not the accumulation of injuries that had rattled the usually unflappable Ratchet… it was having killed another.

Quietly, Ironhide knelt down across Ultra Magnus' frame from Ratchet, shooing away the mech currently holding an energon line pinched between two fingers and adroitly taking said mech's place.

Neither spoke until Ratchet finished sealing off that line and pointed to another one.

Ironhide obediently pinched that line closed as well then asked softly. "What was that?"

"Prowl." Ratchet said shortly, not even glancing up at him.

"Prowl?" Ironhide blinked. "Prowl is nowhere near here. He's on the other side of the base with Drivetrain's team. How could he have…"

"No." Ratchet cut him off, still not taking his optics off his work. "Prowl's been training a handful of us to… to defend ourselves."

The medic looked up at him briefly and then quickly looked back down. It had been enough for Ironhide to see how conflicted his friend was. Of course, Ironhide wanted to smile and congratulate the CMO, but he instinctively knew that would not be taken right.

"You did what you had to." He said quietly instead. "If you hadn't…"

"You don't think I know that!" Ratchet snapped.

Ironhide blinked but did not try to finish the sentence. Then he shook his helm. "I'm glad you were able to do it."

In reality, Ironhide was trying to figure out how he could buy Prowl a high-grade in congratulations and convince the former Enforcer to actually drink it.

Ratchet looked up at him, startled and Ironhide feared his words would be taken wrongly. Then he saw Ratchet's hard expression ease and knew his friend understood what he had tried to say.

Ratchet's armor settled over his frame fractionally as he got back to work and Ironhide felt safe moving the discussion forward. "When your distress call cut off mid-transmission, we feared the worst."

Ratchet merely grunted, his hands not even pausing in their skilled dance. "The… mech… had some kind of special jamming device. About the size of an optic. Starscream made it. Probably a prototype but who knows. He activated it and threw it in that debris pile." He indicated the pile with a jerk of his helm in that direction.

With a grimace Ratchet looked up at him. "Chances are you've lost all communication with the rest of our forces. They probably think all of us are dead."

"Frag." Ironhide had forgotten the strange communication blackout in the utter shock of seeing Ratchet shoot a Decepticon, not just once but twice.

"Go. I can finish this on my own now." Ratchet huffed air.

Ironhide hesitated a moment longer, but Ratchet knew his function and he knew his own limits. With a nod, Ironhide stood and stalked toward the indicated rubble, calling three other mechs to his side.

Quickly he briefed them on what he knew about what they were looking for and they began combing the rubble.

Ultra Magnus was just starting to regain consciousness when they found Starscream's experimental jammer. Hearing the exultant exclamation from the general area Ironhide had been searching, Ratchet looked up sharply.

"Whatever you do, don't destroy it. We need to get that to Wheeljack because it managed to block even the encrypted command channels." The CMO snapped before standing and making his way to his next patient.

This time he did notice the way nearby mechs flinched at his abruptness, though he did not take the time to worry about why.

Ironhide came walking toward him a moment later, turning the device over in his fingers. "I don't think there is an off switch."

Ratchet rolled his optics and held a hand out for the jammer. Warriors.

Ironhide held it out for him and he snatched it up as to examine it himself.

Quickly, Ratchet scanned it with his optics, noting the way his scanners just bounced off as if it were not there. Annoying. So he studied it visually as best he could, turning it this way and that. Finally he released a huff of air and handed it back.

"There is no deactivation control." He announced at last.

"That's what I said." Ironhide smirked at him, then frowned. "That means we can't turn it off."

Ratchet snarled, but kept himself from snapping a hurtful retort. He was not angry at Ironhide, he knew that. "Then crush it."

Ironhide blinked. "I thought you wanted it for Wheeljack to dissect."

"He will just have to do what he can with a crushed copy." Ratchet looked down at the mech under his hands.

Ironhide hesitated, studying him carefully but Ratchet refused to look back up. Then, with a shrug, he pinched the two fingers he was holding it between. It flattened like an organic insect.

Instantly the command channels came alive as various team leaders coordinated the movements of their mechs. Then, overriding all of it, came Prowl's calm and controlled voice.

/… All units; fall back. Repeat; fall back to coordinates 215.36.7 by 773.29.4. Repeat, all units, fall back./ The message continued to be repeated in various incarnations on an urgent signal.

Ratchet and Ironhide looked at each other. Prowl was ordering a retreat?

They might only be able to imagine what could possibly have happened while they had been out of communications, but they both knew and trusted Prowl enough that when he gave an order such as that, they should not delay. Having served together and known each other for as long as they had, neither had to speak to know what the other was thinking.

Nor did they have to discuss their plans to coordinate their movements in a situation like this, primarily because before Prowl came to their side, retreats were a common exercise.

Immediately Ratchet began barking orders to mechs to help him get the wounded to the indicated coordinates while Ironhide started organizing the team that would cover their retreat, just in case.

… … …

Ironhide and his team arrived at the designated coordinates in time to see Hardstrike grab Prowl by the collar strut and shake him.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Hardstrike growled.

"There is no time." Prowl snarled back but never lifted a hand to defend himself.

"I'll send some mechs back myself then, if…"

Hardstrike never finished as the ground beneath them shook in time with a violent explosion from where the Decepticon mining outpost… used to be. The processed energon in the storage facility caused a chain of secondary explosions that rocked the air as a giant fireball bloomed outward.

Ironhide stared. If they had not gotten the retreat order when they had, they would have likely gotten caught in the blast radius of that explosion.

So much for taking the mine, as had been there mission. Ironhide growled, looking back at Prowl and Hardstrike. Had the explosion been unintended or had Prowl changed the mission?

Hardstrike, who had not released his hold on Prowl was still staring the direction of the explosion. Then his optics flashed as he turned back to Prowl.

"Those were three of our mechs. You just let three of our mechs get blown to smithereens. We could have saved them!" With an enraged snarl, Hardstrike threw Prowl away from himself.

Prowl hit the ground and skidded several yards with the force of the throw. He shook his helm and pushed himself back to his feet, but Hardstrike was closing the distance between them again.

Prowl saw the impending threat and visibly braced himself, but never took a defensive stance. "Any rescue attempt would have only increased the number of fatalities."

"That isn't the point!" Hardstrike grabbed Prowl again and swept his feet out from under him to slam him into the ground. Once more Prowl let it happen, clenching his denta with the impact as one door wing was caught at an odd angle.

"You didn't even try!" Hardstrike growled, pain and loss seeping into the edge of his voice, coloring his obvious fury with something deeper.

Prowl snarled his own frustration and anger but never tried to get free of Hardstrike's grip or move to relieve the pressure from his sensitive doorwing. "It was bad enough that three were going to be caught in the blast. I was not about to add more to that." Then more quietly. "Enough have already died this day."

"It was a chance any of us would have taken, you cold-sparked bastard." Hardstrike spit.

"Perhaps." Prowl allowed. "But it is not my job to uselessly waste lives."

"You…" Ironhide rushed forward to grab Hardstrike's fist before he could land the blow Prowl obviously was not going to defend against.

"Enough." Ironhide growled.

Hardstrike looked up at Ironhide and his optics widened as if he had seen a rust demon. "You… we thought you were dead."

Ironhide snorted, changing his grip on Hardstrike's arm to pull him to his pedes. "Not quite, though we easily could have been." He looked down at Prowl and then offered him a hand to his pedes as well, jerking his helm the direction of the explosion. "Was that the Decepticons' or your doing?"

Ironhide saw Hardstrike's heated glare at the tactician but waited until Prowl regained his composure and let him speak for himself. "It was mine, we were out of options."

Suddenly Ironhide understood Hardstrike's anger as well as the air of caution and unease in all the Autobots gathered around them. He growled, gesturing toward where his team were still a little separated from the rest and Ratchet was still working on the wounded. "That little stunt could have killed all fourteen of us."

Prowl followed Ironhide's gesture with his optics and then his doorwings dipped downward. "When we lost all communications with you, it was assumed none had survived. There was…" He glanced around at the mechs surrounding them and deliberately made the decision to stop his explanation.

Ironhide stared at Prowl, at how the mech was braced defensively and yet submissively and he knew that the tactician was well aware of how close he had come to being the cause of the Autobot Second in Command's death. Even if it would not have been intentional.

"I've signaled Iacon for retrieval." Prowl said softly after a moment. "They are half a joor out."

Ironhide nodded, frowning. Then he activated a private comm. to Prowl. /Our mission objective was to take the outpost. Not destroy it./

/I know./ Prowl replied, clearly subdued. /Ultra Magnus?/

/Conscious, but barely./ Ironhide looked at where Ratchet had moved on to the final surviving member of the Commander's escort. Ultra Magnus was sitting, reclined against a pile of debris. He was watching them. /Perhaps you should go speak with him./

Prowl followed his look, saw Ultra Magnus and stiffened. /Do you truly believe this is the best time?/

Ironhide gave Prowl a hard look. /You probably know the regulations better than I do./

Prowl looked at him again and nodded with clear reluctance. Then the tactician turned and made his way to where Ultra Magnus and the rest of the injured had been gathered.

Prowl hesitated for a moment and then knelt beside Ultra Magnus. "Commander, I regret to inform you that we have failed to accomplish our mission objective."

Ultra Magnus turned pain-weary optics onto the tactician. "Your report is acknowledged." He paused to draw in a ragged vent of air. "Your decision?"

"Yes, sir." Prowl acknowledged quietly.

"There will be a hearing…"

"Yes, sir." Prowl tucked his chin. "I am aware of the regulations."

Ultra Magnus studied the Praxian for a long moment. "Survivors?"

"What you see here." Prowl grimaced. "Only two thirds of what we started with."

The dim light in Ultra Magnus' optics flared weakly. "That is… atrocious."

Prowl flinched. "Yes, sir. I saved as many as I could."

Ultra Magnus looked at Prowl for a long moment and then turned his gaze to Ironhide, dismissing the tactician in doing so. "Clearly I am not combat ready… you are… in command."

Ironhide nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Make sure everything is dealt with upon our return." Ultra Magnus shot a pointed look at Prowl.

It was Ironhide's turn to hesitate reluctantly. "Understood."

Ultra Magnus shuttered his optics, the little strength he had regained clearly spent. Ironhide put a hand on Prowl's arm to indicate it was time to leave. Obediently, Prowl stood.

As they stepped away, Ironhide leaned over and whispered into his audio. "Some 'Con had a prototype jammer he was using to block all communications. We had no way to hear you, apparently you could not hear us either. Listen. I'm gonna need a full report as soon as we return to Iacon. There will be a hearing and I want to make sure we have all the relevant facts."

Prowl looked at him then, his expression unreadable. " 'Full report' to what extent, sir?"

Ironhide stared at him, knowing immediately what he was referring to: a processor scan. He shook his helm quickly. "I will let the hearing decide how far to take it. For now just give me a report."

"Understood, sir. You will have it by the time we land in Iacon." It was said in the same inflectionless voice Prowl always affected and Ironhide had a moment to wonder if Prowl even cared about the lives lost.

"How can you be so…callus about this?" He demanded in a hiss.

Prowl's optics sharpened. "You believe me to be a 'cold-sparked bastard' as well?"

"You certainly don't seem that upset." Ironhide's engine revved.

Air snorted through Prowl's vents. "Perhaps if I glitch out because of emotional overload you would be more convinced? I will give you the report you asked for and will be available for additional questioning as my duty and status require, sir. Do you require anything else of me?"

"Yes." It was Ratchet, who finally left his last patient to approach them.

Ironhide was still watching Prowl as the tactician looked from him to the medic. He watched the seemingly impassive mech study the chartreuse CMO, and then, to his great surprise, Ironhide saw the tactician's hard look soften into a hint of compassion.

Somehow Prowl knew, just by looking at Ratchet, that something traumatic had happened to him. Ironhide was further flummoxed to realize that, in witnessing the change, Prowl's previous demeanor was not the absence of feelings, but a barely controlled roiling sea of emotion.

Ironhide watched as Prowl led Ratchet to the perimeter of their makeshift camp and followed discretely, ready to step in if needed to help contain any outbursts.

… … …

Ratchet had to look away from Prowl after a moment and turned to look instead at the still flaming ruins of the Decepticon base. A faint tang in the air indicated vast amounts of energon from the mine had also been lost in the blaze.

Prowl did not say anything immediately, letting Ratchet think, and for that the CMO was grateful. Unfortunately, now, without his work to distract him, the queasiness that had been hanging in the periphery hit him full force.

Before he knew what had happened, Ratchet was doubled over, the energon backing up from his tank spilling onto the broken metal landscape of the badlands. Ratchet shuttered his optics, embarrassed by his weakness.

But Prowl did not condemn him nor shun him for it. Instead, a black hand rested gently on his back. "It was harder than you expected?"

Anger quickly supplanted the nausea and Ratchet's engine revved. "No! It was far too easy, slag you."

Ratchet pushed himself to his pedes, brushing aside Prowl's hand with a viciousness he knew the mech did not deserve, but was unable to stop. "You turned me into a killer!"

Prowl did not react to the accusation, he just stood there, considering Ratchet closely. Then he slowly shook his helm. "You may have taken a life, Ratchet, but you are not a killer."

Ratchet's optics blazed at being contradicted, but Prowl continued before he could explode. "A true killer would not be this conflicted about it."

"That's just it. I'm not conflicted about it!" Ratchet all but yelled at the tactician.

"You are." Prowl assured him. "In fact, you are so conflicted, you are not seeing the situation or your reaction to it clearly."

A black and chartreuse hand rose to point a finger directly into Prowl's faceplate, it was shaking with rage that had no legitimate outlet. "You… you…"

He did not even see Prowl frown in sudden concern. All he knew was that Prowl was suddenly looming in front of him. Prowl was speaking then, but Ratchet could not make sense of the words. All he truly registered was the fact that Prowl had grabbed him and was shaking him urgently.

Ratchet's frame, however, responded instinctively to what it took as an assault. Just as with the Decepticon, moves that his frame had learned, actions he had memorized, rose to the surface and he struck back against his attacker. Again and again and again. He hardly noticed that only a handful of his hits actually landed on their target, he just let all the conflicting emotions find vent.

Then, as quickly as it had happened it was over and Ratchet's awareness snapped back into the present. The form before him suddenly came back into focus and Ratchet realized belatedly he had attacked Prowl. The second thing he realized was that his laser scalpel was humming with power. The third thing he realized was that along side a couple of additional dents in his armor, Prowl's frame now boasted a handful of scorch marks and a rather painful looking lacerated armor plate on his upper chassis.

The fourth thing Ratchet noticed was that they had an audience.

Abruptly, he powered off the laser and transformed it back into his hand. He could not miss the way Prowl relaxed, though the mech made no attempt to move.

"Emotional overload?" Ratchet both asked and explained sheepishly as he belatedly backed off. "I'm sorry."

"It could have been worse." Prowl straightened, stepping forward cautiously.

Ratchet released a vent of air and turned away from the mechs watching them. "Does it get any easier?"

Warily Prowl stepped forward again to join him once more in overlooking the smoking outpost. "No. But it will become easier to deal with."

The look Ratchet cast him was clearly dubious and Prowl nodded. "You are not able to save every patient that comes into your care. Does that get any easier?"

"Not a chance." Ratchet harrumphed, then let his shoulders sag. He looked at Prowl with a tiny wane smile touching his lip plates. "But it does become easier to deal with."

They fell silent for a long moment, then a sudden sense of duty and remorse spurred Ratchet to turn to Prowl and run a quick medical scan over him. The mech's optics widened in surprise but he did not protest.

With another sigh of air, Ratchet turned back to the rather depressing view. "A few dents and scorched paint. That laceration is cosmetic only. Nothing serious. I'm sorry." He faced Prowl again, pulling a stylus out of subspace. "Let me get those…"

But his hand was intercepted by Prowl's and the stylus was deftly plucked out. "As you said, my injuries are minor. Allow me to help you."

Ratchet blinked. "But…"

"Trust me." Prowl cut him off and then lifted the stylus to one of the dents marring his frame.

The tactician proceeded carefully but quickly and his technique was surprisingly gentle. Ratchet could only stare as Prowl methodically worked out all the dents he had gained in his tussle with the Decepticon. It was an… odd sensation. First Aid or Jolt were the only other mechs he had ever allowed to work on him as it was hard to let inexperienced hands do work that he himself knew far too much about.

Nevertheless, as some of the physical aches went away, so did the mental fogginess.

When he was done with that, Prowl looked at him carefully. "I am not a medic, but I can weld temp-plating over that shoulder wound if you would like."

Numbly Ratchet just nodded, pulling an appropriately sized piece of temp-plating from subspace. Silently, Prowl took it and then, of all things, pulled a tiny emergency welder from subspace and used it to attach the temp-plating.

Once he was finished, Prowl stepped back. "My work is not nearly as aesthetically pleasing a job as one of your medics could do, I apologize."

Ratchet blinked. He had just attacked Prowl and the mech apologized that his first aid applications were not 'aesthetically pleasing'?

Then something else slammed into him. Prowl had removed his dents and done basic welding and soldering. How many times had Prowl allowed First Aid or one of the other medics to do that type of work – even to painful consequences – when he had been able to do it for himself? Slag that; how did a mech like Prowl learn to do stuff like that?

"How did you learn how to do this?" He asked.

Prowl regarded him for a moment and then looked away. "I spent six vorns serving under Megatron. Seeking medical help for such minor injuries is a sign of weakness. It is always better and safer to tend to such matters in the privacy of one's own quarters."

Ratchet blinked, remembering something else Prowl had told First Aid once. "Even something like a cracked mandible hinge?"

Prowl hesitated and then nodded, still not looking at him. "Yes. I have even had to remove damaged armor plates and either fix them or weld new ones on."

"That is…" Words failed Ratchet as he looked at Prowl with a new mix of understanding, compassion, respect and even a hint of admiration.

"A skill that has come in handy." Prowl interrupted. "But one I am learning to appreciate not needing to practice."

Deep cerulean optics turned to look at Ratchet and the CMO understood that statement for what it was intended to be. For all the fear Prowl had initially held for medics and himself specifically, the tactician was learning to trust. More than that, he was coming to be thankful. It was a big step, Ratchet knew.

He could not stop the smirk that found his lip plates. "So, training us… has it been educational for us, or therapy for you?"

A tiny chuckle escaped Prowl's vocalizer. "Both, most likely."

… … …

Ironhide, along with most of the surviving mechs on the assault teams, just stood there watching the CMO and the tactician. Ironhide had to admit; he was not surprised that Ratchet had lost it. Never had he seen his friend that conflicted and that close to an emotional overload – medics had to learn to handle a lot, after all, and Ratchet had been a medic for a long, long time – but to see him attack a mech like Prowl…

Ironhide shook his helm. Ratchet knew, just like he did, how skilled a fighter Prowl was; attacking him was an act of stupidity Ironhide would never have expected from Ratchet. Even when suffering an emotional overload. Especially not when Prowl had been so emotionally strained himself.

What would have happened if they had both lost control?

He shuddered, remembering Prowl and Optimus' sparring match.

If they had both lost control the Autobots would have lost their CMO.

No, Ironhide corrected himself, if that were true, they should have lost their Prime in that sparring match. Still…

To see Prowl patiently popping out Ratchet's dents – and to see Ratchet allowing it – Ironhide realized there was more to Ratchet's relationship with Prowl than just that of medic and patient. Perhaps even more than teacher and student, if Prowl had been the one to teach him to defend himself.

They were friends.

That explained why Ratchet had sought Prowl out to help him with his emotional pain. That also explained why Prowl took the enraged beating without retaliating in the slightest, even if he did manage to deflect most of it. It also explained what he was seeing now. No body, but nobody repaired Ratchet, except his personally trained medics. Never would anyone have dreamt that he would let Prowl of all mechs repair him at all, even just minor first aid treatment.

And the most ironic thing of it all, Ironhide decided, was that it was highly likely that neither of the two mechs involved realized how strong a friendship they shared – if they even recognized their relationship as such at all.

Movement to his right reminded Ironhide that he was not alone in watching the two mechs. He cleared his vents and turned to the others gawking at the show. "What are you lug nuts looking at? You there; establish a perimeter, You two; set up a monitoring station and keep a sharp optic for any 'Con signals that might indicate they've made our location. The rest of you go back to whatever you were doing before. Move it!"

Snapped into motion, the crowd dissipated. Ironhide took another look at Ratchet and Prowl and then turned away to follow his own order.

… … …

It was late into the night before the retrieval craft delivered the surviving Autobots to Iacon. Ratchet had taken care of Prowl's more serious injuries before they had left the badlands and so he had no need to go to the med bay.

At first Prowl was at a loss. He had no desire to interrupt Bluestreak's recharge by picking him up… let alone the potential danger of either waking Chromia or interrupting her reunion with Ironhide.

Finally, Prowl decided to take advantage of the late joor – and therefore fewer mechs – to visit the wash racks.

Alone in the quiet of the otherwise empty corridor leading to his destination, Prowl found that his state of mind quickly darkened.

Stepping into the empty bay of public wash racks, Prowl was met with the harsh rasping sound of his own vents. He was more stressed than he had let himself believe. Forcibly, Prowl stilled his vents… only to find his frame heating alarmingly in response.

Purposefully, Prowl headed to one of the corner wash stalls, slapping the control to activate the various spigots positioned around the U-shaped alcove. Icy-cold solvent and emulsifiers splashed against his armor, helping to cool his frame as it started loosening the accumulated muck. The sound of the pressurized jets striking metal covered the harshness of his cycling vents.

He had lost over one third of the mechs on the mission… mechs who had trusted him not to waste their lives. Was there something more he could have done? Honestly, Prowl was not sure. Once Ultra Magnus had gone down, it had been all he could do to keep control of the chaos. He had barely been able to organize the destruction of the Decepticon mining outpost.

Had that been the wrong course of action?

Prowl pressed his hands against the wall nearest him and leaned his weight against them, letting the frigid cleansers wash over him.

Destroying the base had been the best strategic decision at the time, but had it been right? Had he overstepped his authority?

Prowl just did not know. He would have to trust that the review board would decide. He would need to be content with that.

He released a vent of air.

"Here, let me help ya with that." A deep, suave but gentle voice cut into Prowl's morose thoughts.

Prowl rotated just enough to look at Jazz, neither surprised nor truly expecting to see the saboteur there. Apparently his sensors had detected Jazz's arrival, but as the silver minibot was not deemed a threat, the alert sent to his CPU had not penetrated the haze of other thoughts and concerns that were pestering Prowl.

"Jazz…"

Jazz moved closer then, picking up a scrub brush, and stepped into the cold jets of liquid. Prowl could hear the faint hum of the other mech's engine as it had to work harder to maintain his core temperature in the frigid streams of fluid.

"I heard what happened." Prowl felt the gentle but firm strokes of the bristles against his armor as Jazz started working on the accumulated grime coating his dorsal plating

The tactician was very stiff under the saboteur's ministrations. "And you do not blame me?"

The whispered speculations and covert accusations of many of the mechs on the transport during the journey back to Iacon still burned through Prowl's audios, both for what had nearly happened to Ultra Magnus and for the three mechs who had been trapped by enemy fire, and whom he had refused to send reinforcements to when the mine blew. It was made worse in that Prowl was not sure how much of the blame directed at him was actually justified.

But the steady swish, swish of the brush did not falter as Jazz continued to work. "Nah. Not like that."

Prowl let his doorwings droop a fraction, exhausted and, for some reason, not feeling like he needed to hide that from this mech "Not like what?"

"I know ya didn't intentionally let the Commander and his escort get ambushed. I know ya didn't intentionally kill off a third of the forces on the mission." Behind him, Jazz shifted position to scrub a little higher, working his way to Prowl's shoulder. "Been in your head too many times ta think ya turned on us."

Prowl fought the urge to shift uneasily, not entirely sure what to do with the unexpected kindness Jazz was offering him. He spoke softly. "I did make decisions I had no authority to make."

"That ain't the same as betraying us." Jazz moved on to the other shoulder guard. "It might have even been tha right call. Tha hearing will decide that. Doesn't mean ya don't still have friends."

Friends? Plural?

Prowl shuttered his optics, suddenly shamed by the compassion Jazz was demonstrating. "It might have also been a grave misjudgment."

"Maybe. Doesn't mean ya're evil or gone rogue or anythin'. Just means ya stepped outta line and made mistakes. So what?" Jazz kept working on cleaning Prowl's armor.

"Twenty-two Autobots, lost…" Prowl's vents hitched painfully.

Suddenly the brush stopped moving. When Jazz spoke it was almost inflectionless. "This is war. Things happen."

"But…"

Without warning, Jazz grabbed Prowl's shoulder, spinning him around to pin him against the wall. One of the jets was partially, and uncomfortably, occluded by Prowl's frame, but the smaller saboteur nimbly dodged the spraying solvent.

Black and silver hands closed around the edges of armor plates on Prowl's chassis. "What's wrong with ya? You were the Commander of the tactical division for the entire Enforcer Corps in Praxus. Ya shouldn't be so messed up just 'cause a one botched mission."

Prowl let himself be held there, but was unable to meet Jazz's visor. "I am not just a tactician on a botched mission. I… the last time a mission went this bad…"

Prowl fell silent, remembering what had happened after he had been deemed responsible for the safe-house fiasco.

Jazz shook him gently. "Get a grip, mech. Everyone's entitled to a few mistakes. The review board is standard procedure – not 'cause of your former allegiance. Surely ya know that."

"I am still on probation." Prowl finally looked at Jazz.

"Oh." Jazz hesitated, staring at him for a long moment. "Is that all this is?"

Without waiting for an answer, Jazz picked up his brush again and started working on a gummed up joint in Prowl's arm. " 'Cause they might order a scan of your processor?"

Prowl released a vent and looked away, uncomfortable with being tended to by another individual and yet not having the strength to pull away. "Partly."

"Yeah, they might." Jazz did not look up from his work, leaning forward and carefully picking out accumulated road grime and ash from the fire. "If they do, I won't go further than I have ta. You cooperate and it won't be bad. Ya believe that?"

Prowl did not answer right away, considering the question, and found that he did believe Jazz.

"I do." He answered softly, looking at the saboteur. Then his voice grew a touch bitter. "Of course, I will 'cooperate' no matter what the hearing decides or orders."

"Ah." Jazz took that in, understanding exactly the meaning behind Prowl's words. "That."

Prowl grimaced. "Yes, 'that.'"

Jazz glanced up at him and grew still, studying him. "Ya trust the Prime?"

Prowl cocked his helm. "Yes."

Jazz reached up to touch Prowl's shoulder with the hand not holding the brush. "Then trust him ta be fair in this too."

"It is not him I do not trust." Prowl heard himself say with out intending to speak.

Jazz drew back. "Then what…"

Prowl straightened suddenly, reaching up to tug the brush out of Jazz's hand, interrupting him. "Considering where this hearing might lead, cleaning my armor is hardly something you should be doing, Jazz."

Jazz's engine growled and he snatched the brush back. "I ain't doing this as your perhaps, maybe interrogator. I'm doin' it as your friend."

With that, the silver mech went back to attacking the few heavily soiled spots within easy reach. He did so with an intensity that took Prowl aback.

Then, regaining himself, Prowl turned away and shut off the stream of solvent. "That is not a kindness I deserve."

Jazz stared after him for several long astroseconds, the faucets' dripping a forlorn accent to the harsh sounds of Prowl's systems. Then he set the brush down on a nearby rack and walked slowly toward the larger mech.

"What else happened?" Jazz asked, barely audible. "Something that isn't in the mission reports?"

Prowl looked down, feeling oddly compelled to answer truthfully and completely. Perhaps it was just knowing Jazz might soon be back in his processor and would 'see' the answer anyway. Or, perhaps, it was just the earnestness in Jazz's demeanor and the sincerity in the unshielded optics that now looked up at him.

He answered before he fully decided what he would say. "Before we left, Bluestreak asked about Praxus and my role in it."

Jazz blinked. "Ya didn't have a role in what happened to Praxus."

Prowl's pained optics lifted up to Jazz's. "I developed the strategy Megatron used against Praxus."

Jazz's optic shutters narrowed. "You developed a strategy to attack Iacon, it was Megatron who used it against Praxus."

"And that absolves me?" Prowl asked sharply.

Jazz stepped closer again, pressing into Prowl's personal space, his EM field flaring. "You were a Decepticon tactician. Of course ya would develop a strategy to attack Iacon. But even when ya were one of them, ya never woulda attacked a neutral city."

"Yes, I would have." Prowl snapped harshly. "Or have you forgotten that the reason I was in the city was because I thought I was helping to gather intelligence and tagging important targets for an assault that I would have orchestrated."

Prowl's engine was revving, firing unevenly in his emotional state as the pressure grew in his processor. Resolutely he beat back the mental pain, unwilling to let himself escape into blackness the difficulty of facing the darkness of his former actions. Then he looked down in defeat, all his insecurity coiling around his spark anew and squeezing mercilessly. "I would have."

Jazz stared at him, still holding him against the wall of the wash rack. Finally he shook his helm. "Ya might have attacked Praxus if ya were ordered, but ya wouldn't have condoned a full scale slaughter like what happened. That's why Megatron did not trust ya with his real plans."

Prowl could not stop the soft keen his engine wanted to make, though he stifled it with weak growl. If only he could be so sure of himself.

Jazz did not back off, pressing him more firmly against the wall while he continued quietly. "That's why you're here right now: why ya defected. I know… I've been in your head."

Prowl looked up at Jazz, his own EM field flaring semi-defiantly against the saboteur's. "Bluestreak has not been 'in my head.' All he knows is that his creators were killed in front of him and then the entire city was destroyed. He has always thought more highly of me than he should."

Alarm filled Jazz's expression and his EM field retracted tight to his frame. "What did ya tell him?"

"I…" Prowl looked away. "I told him nothing."

"Oh, Prowl!" Irritation had Jazz drawing his name into two syllables.

Prowl flinched. "I know. I am a coward."

Jazz's energy field flared again and he reached up and whacked Prowl on the side of the helm. "I might be tempted to call you many things, but 'coward' has never been one of 'em."

Prowl just stared.

When the tactician did not move, Jazz reached forward and grabbed Prowl, shoving him into the middle of the wash rack before hitting the controls to activate the air blowers that would help dry his frame.

A few moments later, with both of them dry, Jazz shoved Prowl toward the door. "Now, get yourself together. You have two joors to recharge before you have to report to Smokescreen. Don't waste 'em moping."

… … …

Prowl reported to the tactical command the next orn with a strange feeling of surrealism. He was greeted by most of the mechs in the hallway as he usually was: with short, neutral nods of acknowledgement. While not overtly friendly, they were not cold or hostile as they had been after the safe-house fiasco. And that was a definite improvement.

Perhaps word of the last mission had not filtered down to the rank and file yet.

Only Smokescreen and the three mechs on the night shift in tactical were in the department when he walked in.

Smokescreen looked up as Prowl strode through the door and, from the seriousness in his expression, Prowl knew his apprentice was aware of what had happened.

"Prowl." Smokescreen gestured him to his office.

Prowl followed him silently and stood at attention as the door closed behind them. Smokescreen paced around his desk and then closed the distance between them. The white and gray tactician studied his mentor carefully.

Finally he spoke. "So… the mission got fragged up."

Prowl's doorwing twitched. "Eloquently said."

There was another moment of awkward silence.

Then Smokescreen let out a gust of air. "You were hesitant about being the only tactician on this mission."

Prowl stood stiffly at attention. "Yes."

Pain flicked through Smokescreen's optics. "Prowl I… I have to ask…."

For a moment Prowl stayed stubbornly silent and then lowered his optics. "I know. There are legitimate questions. Ask them."

Clear reluctance etched across Smokescreen's faceplate. "Did… did you do it on purpose?"

Prowl hid a flinch. It was the first time anyone had bothered to actually ask that question. In a way it was a relief to finally have it happened.

He answered firmly. "No."

Smokescreen nodded, not surprised but still relieved. "Did you know it would go that bad?"

Prowl stiffened even more. "There is always a chance a mission can go bad."

Frowning Smokescreen stepped closer, rephrasing. "Did you have concerns you being the only tactician might increase those chances for any reason?"

Prowl drew in a vent of air. "I knew it was possible, but weighed against the calculated risks of having more tacticians in the field without a tested means of ensuring our protection, it was virtually inconsequential."

"But you did have some concern."

Prowl's doorwing flicked. "Some, yes."

Smokescreen's engine revved. "Yet you did not voice them?"

Prowl looked back down. "I did protest the way the command structure of the mission was established as it would increase the risk of catastrophic breakdown if…"

Smokescreen interrupted, sounding both unhappy and pained. "But you said nothing when Fusion made the suggestion to send you out alone."

Releasing a vent, Prowl deflated. "I did not."

"Why not?" Smokescreen's systems almost whined.

"At the time, such risks seemed insignificantly small." Prowl defended.

The silence that settled between them was strained and Smokescreen only grew more conflicted. By that alone, Prowl suspected what was coming and, as he was not truly surprised, strove to prepare himself. He was, after all, headed before a review board.

Finally, Smokescreen spoke again. "You said you had a 'selfish' reason for not having made the recommendation yourself. What was it?"

That was not exactly what Prowl was expecting and he realized Smokescreen was attempting to delay the inevitable. Nevertheless, the question brought back the shame Prowl had felt when he had first been confronted with his own selfishness. That was the primary reason he answered Smokescreen as readily as he did.

"I feared for my own safety, that protecting me – a former Decepticon – would not be a priority for them." Prowl could not meet Smokescreen's optics.

Smokescreen only stared at him, clearly torn. When the younger Praxian broke the silence, he was barely audible. "I already reprimanded you for not making the suggestion yourself."

Prowl nodded shortly, knowing Smokescreen would not be able to avoid the inevitable outcome of this conversation for much longer. "And you would be well within your rights to reprimand me again, for…"

"Stop!" Smokescreen's engine growled. "If you had any legitimate reason for not bringing it up, that was the time to share them." He paused. "I shouldn't have to tell you this."

Prowl ducked his helm, not speaking though he transmitted his understanding and acknowledgement.

A frustrated sigh of air escaped Smokescreen and he slid into his chair. "So… what happened?"

Prowl resisted the temptation to shift, wishing Smokescreen would quit stalling. It would only make it more uncomfortable in the end. "The exact sequence of events is unclear at this time. I do know that a prototype jamming device was used by the Decepticons and that, when ultra Magnus was shot, the entire command structure of the mission fell apart."

Hissing air through his vents, Smokescreen blinked his optic shutters. "Then it must have been a struggle just to keep it from really going to pit."

"Indeed."

Smokescreen sighed air again and looked down at where he had his hands resting on his desk and Prowl knew he had decided to stop delaying. "Well, as the mission objective was not achieved, and because there was such a high casualty rate, there will be a hearing before a review board."

Prowl nodded. "Yes, I am aware."

He knew he was about to be relieved of his duty. There was no other logical course of action. He had known that this would happen before they had even left the badlands. He would accept that consequence with dignity.

Smokescreen grimaced. "Well, Tactical will be expected to provide an official report analyzing what happened."

Prowl nodded, not surprised. Distantly, he wondered how vindicated Fusion might feel conducting such an investigation. Of all the other mechs in the department, he was best suited for such a thing.

It took him a moment to realize Smokescreen was watching him closely again, cautiously this time, and by that knew the time had come.

However, the words Smokescreen uttered where not what he expected. "You will be providing that report."

Prowl jerked back. "I… I am not sure that is appropriate. After all, I…

Smokescreen lifted a hand, silencing his protest. "It is very appropriate. You were there and are a first-hand witness. You are the best the department has who can run such an analysis and investigation. And, most importantly, I know that you will be absolutely impartial and thorough."

Prowl blinked, not sure if the assignment was an indication of trust or a punishment; such as the one he had assigned Trailbreaker decaorns ago. Then he decided it did not matter. He wanted to know – really know – what had happened on that mission. The unknowns were eating away at his processor as rust mites ate at unprotected metal. And that was worse than knowing he was undeniably guilty.

If Prowl found he was implicated in any wrongdoing, so be it. There were too many unanswered questions and vexing problems associated with that mission.

Yes, if he discovered that he had, in fact, been responsible for the mission failure, he would accept responsibility.

While it might end up being self-incriminatory, Prowl decided such an assignment was much better than being left to worry until the hearing was held.

He nodded sharply, finding that he felt more grounded than he had since before the mission. "Understood."

Smokescreen's optics flickered, seeing Prowl's change in perspective. It was not quite a smile of relief. Then he nodded dismissal and Prowl turned to leave.

Then Prowl stopped, looking back at his apprentice. "Smokescreen… Thank you."


I feel like I should probably point out that I do not believe Cybertronians would see anything intimate or sexual with the use of the wash racks. Or even with helping each other reach hard to get places, though I would think it would take a certain amount of trust to allow another mech that close... but no more 'intimate' than a car might feel at the car wash. Jazz's actions in this chapter are NOT romantic or exotic in any way. He was just helping a friend with a task that needed to be done. Please, please, please everyone, keep your mind out of the gutter. Thank you.

I did get quite a few over-lapping requests for various different topics related to side stories. Most were very good and thought provoking, so I will do what I can to address them at some point down the line. When I do, I will do my best to give credit for the ideas where credit is due. I am always open to suggestions and, if there is something that you feel particularly strong about, feel free to remind me about it from time to time.

By the way... I thought I was getting close to being able to go back to my original outline (ie: the other side of that time-jump I decided to explore a little bit in detail), but this chapter kinda took me to a whole new world I wasn't expecting. Ever feel like something you've written has taken on a life of its own? Yeah.

Revision note: My thanks to a Guest reviewer for pointing out a potential inconsistency with a fact established in the first chapter. As of 12/15/13 this chapter was revised to deal with that inconsistency. So if you are reading this for the second time and it seems like something changed... it has. :) My thanks also to KeepingThemAtBay for pointing out some spelling errors. I have endeavored to correct them, but I am sure I missed something...