Hello, sorry for the long delay, this chapter just did not want to come together. I'm afraid the next couple of chapters might act this way too, but I'll do my best to keep that from happening. I was almost tempted to title this chapter 'No one's happy.' I'll be making an edit to chapter two, adding Paddles to the Lightning Strike Coalition and making it so that Swoop was always an aerial. Other than that, I have nothing else to say. Sorry again for the delay.
Beatbox is a character thought up by a friend of mine who apparently wanted a walking, sentient sack of irony.
Also, since I can't say 'muscular' to describe things with transformers, I've invented the term 'hydraulical' because hydraulics. That is all.
-Chapter Three-
There was pain, so much pain. Something was burning inside of him, twisting into his spark like a knife and leaving behind an aching throb throughout his entire frame. What was happening? Where was he? Nothing felt right. Files and operations had strange labels, they weren't where they were supposed to be, and were out of his reach; denying him access whenever he tried to open them. Why couldn't he access his files? Why were they so different? And—ugh—why did thinking hurt? Everything just . . . hurt.
He refused to allow the pain to stop him, of course, investigating every piece of information his systems decided to give him. Finally, one small thing broke through what he now recognized as forced stasis, jogging his memory. That was right . . . the ambush at the Sea of Rust. That explained the pain, but what of his butchered files? And why was thinking . . . so . . . hard? What had broken through the stasis firewalls? That seemed like a good place to start. It had been a sensation. The feel of a welder. Was he being repaired? It would explain the stasis, but his instincts told him otherwise. Why had he felt it anyway? Stasis should have kept him unconscious and incapable of feeling anything, and while he had been known to break himself out of stasis before, he never did so unless he was on edge, so why . . ? Did his subconscious know something he didn't?
Pain shot through his frame one again the longer he puzzled over things, but it was ignored. He was starting to get angry. So . . . angry. He knew what was happening, he knew it, so why couldn't he remember? What was happening to him? Who had blocked him out of his own systems? Who did this to him? If he could only online his optics and catch a glimpse of who was using that welder . . . but the command was blocked by the medical firewalls. Puh, firewalls he could handle. With a single-minded focus that was oddly easier to maintain than his own thoughts, he began to ruthlessly beat away at the intruding program. Until he knew for a fact that it was friendly, it was something to be purged. With his unrelenting assault, the firewall was easily overridden and access to his optics regained. However, he didn't want to clue this mysterious bot in on his consciousness, so when he onlined his optics, he did so at the lowest possible setting.
He instantly recognized the frame in his sights, the single red optic taunting him while everything came flooding back. The ambush. The energon. The experiments. Rage filled his spark until all he could see was red. The remaining firewalls blocking his motor functions broke down as he roared and struggled against the restraints. He would snuff that mech. Beat him to the ground and skewer him like the scrap he was.
The mech was maddeningly calm as he typed in a few commands on a nearby console and suddenly everything was turning black again. No. NO! He had to . . . get free . . . find the others . . . nrrgh.
He would snuff him. When he got free, he would end Shockwave.
Thundercracker wished that he had gotten more of a warning than Starscream's sharp 'Fall back!' before Marcon had gone up in flames. Instead, he had been staring directly at the city, which swiftly became a towering inferno with a deafening bang. Now his optics hurt, and—unsurprisingly—the deafening bang had about made him go deaf. Unlike Velocitron, however, he found it difficult to feel guilty about the fate of the Autobot stronghold and the Autobots within. They were the enemy, after all, unlike the neutrals. Neutrals like that one Cyclonus had been after.
::Decepticons!:: Starscream barked, ::They're vulnerable! Strike now!:: He covered it well, but Thundercracker had a sneaking suspicion that Starscream had been in the dark about the bomb attack as well. He sounded a bit irritated, if also eager to shoot down some frazzled aerialbots.
The Autobots were slowly falling into understandable chaos, which gave Thundercracker a chance to transform and reset his optics. Once he could see again, he had an even better view of the Autobots' disorganized front line, as well as the heli-former flying aggravatingly close to him. Sadly, the seeker could only stare at Cyclonus in complete incomprehension when he spoke. "WHAT!?" he shouted back, hardly hearing even himself over the ringing in his audios.
"I SAID, WHAT ARE YOU DOING JUST HOVERING THERE? LET'S GET ON WITH THE TARGET PRACTICE! AHAHAHAHA!" Cyclonus repeated loudly before flying off, not bothering to ensure he was heard that time.
Thundercracker grimaced a little at the other mech's description. Yes, the Autobots were rather chaotic at the moment, but they were hardly going to stand there and let themselves get shot. Still, he doubted logic would temper Cyclonus's enthusiasm. The heli-former's love of slaughter was likely why he was after that neutral in the city . . . he probably didn't care that the mech obviously was practically a youngling still.
Shaking his head, he transformed back into jet mode and took off to regroup with Starscream and Hotlink. Things had gotten a bit disorganized on their side too, after all, since they weren't expecting the explosion either last he'd checked. A flash of grey and red sped by him and caught his attention, soon followed by a clearly overwhelmed purple seeker. That had to be Starscream.
::Thundercracker! Get back into formation!:: Yes, it was definitely Starscream. ::And you! Keep up, or I'll throw you to the aerialbots!:: he hissed, presumably at Hotlink.
::Err, yes, sir!:: Hotlink responded, increasing his speed a bit.
Thundercracker mentally rolled his optics at Starscream's attitude and smoothly flew back into his position to Starscream's right, preparing for a dogfight once they reached the mess that was the aerialbots.
::To the right, thirty-five degrees!:: the SIC snapped, increasing his speed.
As Thundercracker quickly banked after him, he scanned the battlefield before him and soon spotted the squadron Starscream was leading them towards. It seemed to be a larger group of five aerialbots, none of them seekers. He glanced over at Hotlink and, noting a slight lag in the other mech's movements, sent him a quick ping with the information he'd just found out. Starscream had yelled at the poor mech enough for one solar cycle, he didn't need to scream at him again for missing the target. Hotlink's speed picked up moments later, Thundercracker's sensors receiving a grateful return ping from the purple seeker.
::Hotlink, bank around and flank them! Thundercracker, with me!::
Starscream's latest order surprised Thundercracker, and not just because he actually used Hotlink's name. It was surprising because it wasn't his usual method of attack when flying in a trine, but once Hotlink began to pull out of the formation, the logic hit him. Hotlink wasn't used to flying with them, nor were they accustomed to flying with him, and it seemed Starscream had finally bothered to acknowledge that fact. So, he sent the other seeker to fly semi-solo—which was something every seeker had done before—leaving himself with Thundercracker as the main force of the group. 'This could work,' he thought, speeding after the air commander as they closed in behind the aerialbot squadron.
::Fire!::
Thundercracker was shooting before Starscream even finished giving the order. Two of the aerialbots went down instantaneously, letting out a couple of strangled screams. They clearly hadn't noticed them flying behind them. With only three members of the squadron left the group began to scatter, which was when Hotlink made his reappearance, taking down one of the engines of the jet who appeared to be the leader.
::Now, take one and raze them to the ground!:: There was an audible sneer in Starscream's voice when he gave the command, taking off after the jet on the left. ::Hotlink, finish that one off!::
Thundercracker quickly sped after the jet flying off to the right, since it was the only one left. Forcing him into a reverse scissors, he began to watch the other's movements, looking for the perfect moment to strike. He adjusted his angle for an instant to avoid a volley of shots the jet sent his way, soon retaliating once he found his opening.
He could hear the agonized shriek that left the bot's vocalizer when the shots hit, destroying one of his wings and sending him into a fatal corkscrew. Another Decepticon finished him off moments after he transformed in an effort to regain his bearings.
::Sound off!:: Starscream ordered, distracting him from the way his tanks twisted at the sight of the aerialbot plummeting to the ground.
::Mine's offlined,:: Hotlink answered.
::Offlined,:: Thundercracker replied.
::Excellent. Fall in!::
It took Thundercracker a couple nanokliks to spot his trine leader, but forming back up wasn't very difficult. The sight of aerialbots dropping all around them made him wonder though . . . ::What exactly are we after, Starscream? Are we stopping at Marcon, or moving on to Crystal City?::
::Our orders were to take Marcon via Velocitron,:: Starscream answered shortly before directing them to another aerialbot squadron. ::Left, fifty-five degrees!::
Thundercracker glanced at the flaming remains of the city in question as he adjusted his flight pattern to follow. It seemed like their victory—on that front at least—was assured. Unless, of course, the Autobots had some sort of counteroffensive planned already.
When Marcon exploded, it had been shocking, horrifying, and complete. Bluestreak hadn't been paying attention to the telltale smoke from Velocitron, so he hadn't actually seen the massive fireball, but others had. It was a bit depressing how quickly his solar cycle could go from mingling with his fellows, to staring out the window in panic. X-Brawn and Sideburn were in Marcon! Were his brothers alright? He couldn't bear the thought of losing any more family. The explosion also meant that the 'Cons had moved on from Velocitron . . . Primus, was Prowl alright?
The silver praxian backed away from the window—his place swiftly filled by someone else—and spun around to race to the nearest lift. He couldn't check on Sideburn or X-Brawn, but he could make sure Prowl was okay. The doors of the lift opened with a familiar 'whoosh' but the motion felt so slow all of a sudden, and once he was inside he repeatedly pressed the button for the 32nd floor with frantic urgency. "C'mon, c'mon, hurry up!" he muttered to himself, letting up on his assault when the doors finally slid shut. As the lift began its ascent, Bluestreak began to rock on his pedes, struggling to keep himself from imagining the scene at Marcon and Velocitron. He knew what it would be like; the cold, unforgiving silence of the offlined . . . "No, no, no, don't think like that, Bluestreak, you're just letting your imagination run away with you. Yeah, that's it. Just think about something else, anything else, is Sideswipe doing okay? Hopefully he can tell me about his mission when he gets back—was this thing always this slow!? Primus, it's like it's crawling! . . . Heh, crawling up a building, how silly . . . Why am I laughing at a time like this!? Well, I guess I was trying to distract myself, which I guess would explain some of this . . ."
Before he could ramble on any further, the lift finally came to a stop and slid open the doors with a soft chime. Bluestreak was out in an instant, flying down the hall to reach the main conference room. Prowl hadn't left it since this whole mess started. When he reached it, he took a brief moment to calm his heaving vents and then punched in his access code, hoping that Prowl hadn't locked the room. Luckily, the system pinged its acceptance of the code and the door slid out of the way, giving the silver mech a perfect view of his elder brother.
Prowl was staring out the window, his servos clenched into tight fists on the sill. While Bluestreak couldn't see his face, his especially rigid posture and the way his doorwings trembled ever so slightly told the younger praxian all he needed to know.
He slowly moved closer to the black and white, careful to make some noise in case Prowl hadn't heard him enter, and gently rested a servo on the other mech's shoulder. "Prowl, it's . . . it's not your fault . . ."
From his new position, he could now make out Prowl's expression in the window reflection, and while to the average observer it might have appeared identical to his usual one, Bluestreak could see the inner rage and pain that was being suppressed. ". . . I . . . should have seen this coming sooner. I should have known . . . done something . . ." Prowl stated quietly, his gaze drifting to the ground.
Bluestreak didn't like the guilt he heard in his brother's tone. "It's not your fault, Prowl. No one's blaming you for this," he insisted, trying to catch Prowl's optics.
The other praxian merely ducked his head further and brought his servos to his helm, his elbows taking their place on the sill as he made a sorrowed noise.
Seeing that this wasn't working, Bluestreak decided to change tactics and wrapped his arms around Prowl from the side to try and give what little comfort he could. "You made a mistake, everyone does. Even you."
Prowl didn't object to the hug, but he did object to what was said. "This mistake cost thousands of lives, Bluestreak . . ." he protested. "I should have . . ." a keen followed his terminated sentence.
Bluestreak didn't respond this time, instead providing silent support as he squeezed closer. What could he do . . .
"Incoming transmission. Origin: Praxus."
Prowl practically fazed out of Bluestreak's grip when Teletraan-1 spoke, his usual blank expression back in place as he approached the console. "Let it through."
Bluestreak flailed for a moment before chasing his brother over to the supercomputer, his worried expression not leaving his face.
The viewscreen lit up to reveal a large grounder with a blue paint job. "Chromia, reporting in," she said.
"Chromia, what is the situation out there?" Prowl asked, a hint of urgency to his voice.
"Bad," she replied bluntly. "The Decepticon force is in the way of us sending a rescue team to Marcon, but Crystal City has sent a team of its own, and they should hopefully reach the city while we continue to deal with the Decepticons. As for Velocitron, a few refugees have started to trickle in both here and at Glibax, but we've been unable to make contact with Flashhammer or any other Autobots stationed in the city for several megacycles. I'm afraid we may have to assume the worst."
Prowl's doorwings twitched. "I see," he replied, a slight frown tugging at his lips.
Bluestreak fidgeted in place, feeling a little like he was eavesdropping on a confidential discussion despite the fact that both Prowl and Chromia knew he was there.
"What of Optimus and Ironhide?" Chromia inquired, piquing Bluestreak's interest. Ironhide? Ironhide had been the one to call Sideswipe to the conference room, did this involve him too?
"I am afraid that they have yet to check in," Prowl answered. "However, Skyfire did not report any trouble when I spoke with him a few cycles ago."
The femme nodded. "Understood. I need to be going, but I'll keep this channel open in case anything changes."
"Thank you, Chromia."
Bluestreak's doorwings flicked indecisively while Prowl gave Teletraan-1 the command to end the transmission. "U-um . . ." Once his quiet stuttering and fidgeting garnered Prowl's attention—which hardly took five nanokliks—he wasn't entirely sure what to say. ". . . Err . . . Is Sides with Optimus and Ironhide?" he finally asked in response to the elder mech's expectant look, figuring that was a safe thing to ask.
Prowl was silent for a moment before sighing. "Yes, he is, as are Sunstreaker, Powerglide, Warpath, and Skyfire."
Bluestreak squirmed. ". . . What are they doing?"
To that, his brother raised an optic ridge. "As much as I would like to tell you, you know as well as I do that you cannot keep a secret."
The younger praxian let out a sheepish giggle. "Uh . . . heh, right. Sorry," he mumbled, scuffing his pede against the floor. That was true, he did have a a tendancy (more like a habit) of speaking before thinking, and he'd been known to blurt out secrets before. He knew that most bots liked him regardless, but they never told him anything that they really wanted kept secret anymore. He couldn't blame them, honestly. He could still ask Prowl when he thought they might return though, which was a thought that helped cheer him up, despite the looming fear for Sideburn, X-Brawn, and all the other Autobots in Marcon and Velocitron. "So, do you have an idea of when they'll—"
Prowl raised his servo and motioned for Bluestreak to hold on for a moment, his other servo reaching up to activate his comm link and respond to the bot on the other end.
Bluestreak blinked for a couple of nanokliks before continuing to wiggle, waiting patiently for Prowl to finish. His attention drifted over to the chairs surrounding the table and, figuring that his brother might need to talk for a while, he decided to take a seat. Once seated though, he still couldn't help but squirm in his chair, twiddling his digits nervously. No matter how he tried to keep himself from thinking about Marcon, his CPU kept drifting in that direction. How many bots had they just lost? Velocitron too. How many bots were stationed there? He believed the number was around 500 or so, with everyone else being neutral. Primus, there was no way they could handle an all-out assault by the Decepticons. He shifted in his seat and crossed his arms on the tabletop, his doorwings twitching anxiously. Those poor bots, and Prowl was blaming himself for every one of them.
He glanced out of the window at the cloud of smoke in the distance and let out a distressed whine, flopping his head onto his arms. He didn't know what to do. Not to mention that this was before he factored in the mysterious mission Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had gone on. It had to be serious if Optimus was heading it. What could they . . ? 'No no . . . I need to stop being so negative. A rescue team is on its way to Marcon, after all, so help is on the way. Survivors from Velocitron are turning up, and Prowl recently spoke to Skyfire. Yes, everything will be fine. Just . . . just fine . . .' he thought to himself, trying to sooth his jittery spark. 'Besides, Prowl's not . . . too worried . . . right . . ?' Lifting his head just enough to peer up at his brother, Bluestreak found his attempt to reassure himself ending in failure when he spotted Prowl's expression. He looked . . . devastated, really. Who was he talking to? What else had happened? He was starting to wish that comms had to be spoken aloud.
Bluestreak slowly got to his pedes when Prowl finally signed off of the channel and returned to the window, looking worse off than before. ". . . Prowl? Is . . . Who was that? Or was it confidential?" he asked, approaching his older sibling with a creeping feeling of dread in the pits of his tanks.
Prowl heaved a heavy sigh, allowing his shoulders to slump. ". . . That was Optimus. He . . . did not have good news," he replied.
Bluestreak's doorwings began to twitch erratically, his digits drumming against his legs. ". . . We . . . we didn't lose anyone . . . did we?" he risked in a small voice, moving closer until he was at his brother's side.
". . . No. However . . . it . . ." Prowl sighed again. "You'll learn soon enough."
The silver mech's doors sank at that comment, but the sound of the conference room door interrupted him before he could ask for more details. He and Prowl swung their gazes over to the entrance, where the owner of a weld-mark addled frame loudly announced his presence.
"There ya are, Prowler! I've been lookin' everywhere for ya!" Jazz exclaimed, standing rather dramatically in the doorway with his servos on the doorframe, making it seem almost like he'd pried the door open.
"Jazz, were you not placed on berth rest by Ratchet?" Prowl drawled in a bland tone, not fazed in the least by the saboteur's theatrics. It seemed the slight leeway he'd allowed himself for showing his emotions had disappeared when Jazz arrived.
The other black and white mech waved a servo in a flippant fashion. "Never mind that, I need ya ta tell me what's goin' on around here," he retorted, finally allowing the door to slide shut by stepping into the room.
One of Prowl's doors flicked irritably. "I am sorry, but you will have to be more specific than that," he chided in the same, dull tone of voice.
It was hard to tell, but Bluestreak was certain that Jazz's optics narrowed under his visor. "Fine," he huffed. "I was feelin' a bit low on the ol' reserves, so I got up ta get my ration. Suddenly, all I'm hearin' about in the rec room is how the 'Cons are invadin' Velocitron, and blowin' up Marcon! What did I recharge through!?"
Jazz's words seemed to bring about the return of Prowl's visible melancholy, the older praxian's doorwings sinking similarly to Bluestreak's own. ". . . I see," he said, sounding a bit subdued. ". . . Bluestreak?"
The sliver mech snapped his optics over to Prowl's face when he heard his name. "Yeah?"
"Perhaps you could go down to the landing bay. Optimus and the others are only a few cycles out and shall be here shortly," Prowl continued, looking Bluestreak in the optics.
Sensing that the other praxian was subtly telling him that he needed to leave, Bluestreak nodded. "Oh, uh . . . sure," he replied, but he couldn't help adding, ". . . And I'm sure that whatever's happened will turn out alright."
The look in Prowl's optics didn't change. ". . . There are times when I am envious of your optimism, Bluestreak," he admitted softly, clasping his servos behind his back.
Bluestreak felt sick to his tanks, breaking optic contact with his brother when he began moving over to the door. Just how bad was Optimus's news? He shook his head and scurried the rest of the distance to the door, giving Jazz a quick, nervous smile while he keyed it open. "Uh, nice to see you're doing better, Jazz," he stated quickly, stepping out into the hall once his code was accepted.
"Thanks, Little Blue," Jazz shot back, giving the silver bot a wave just before the door shut.
Suddenly left loitering in the hallway, Bluestreak began to fidget again. Curiosity drove him to investigate the door, and he found that it was now locked, accessible only to officer-level codes. He wasn't terribly surprised, as he suspected Prowl shooed him out because he needed to bring the other TIC up to date on the situation, which could involve the disclosure of more . . . sensitive information. With that in his CPU, he decided to do as Prowl suggested and await the return of Optimus's team.
He couldn't help the disturbed look on his face as he walked down the hall to the lift, and he hoped that he hadn't worried any passing Autobots too terribly with his expression. He just couldn't stop thinking about about Marcon, Velocitron, his brothers, and now whatever it was that Optimus had told Prowl. Something was horribly wrong, he could just feel it.
Loose scrap dug into Silverstreak's sides as he sped across the ruined landscape at top speed. The world around him was nothing but a blur, his wheels scraped and abused like he'd driven to the pit and back, but all he could focus on was getting as far away from Velocitron as he could, as fast as possible. Every inch of his frame ached, errors flashing across his vision telling him he was losing energon and that he needed to slow down, cool off, refuel, rest, and stop. But he couldn't stop, not until he was safe. He couldn't even think, all that was in his processor was 'run,' and even his current speed at 1240 hics a megacycle didn't feel fast enough. He didn't even realize that he'd blazed past at least nine Autobot camps in his adrenaline-fueled dash across Cybertron, but soon enough the massive strain he was putting on his systems became too much. Against his will, his emergency protocols overrode his commands and cut his engine, forcing him to slow down until it was safe enough for a forced transformation. Momentum kept him moving for a little while longer, until he finally collapsed on the ground with a harsh thud.
It was around that time that he finally noticed how far he'd gone. Velocitron was now no more than a hint of smoke on the horizon, but unfortunately he also realized that he had no idea where he was. Figuring that out, however, had to be placed on hold in favor of a desperate attempt to stem the flow of energon from his alarmingly massive amount of injuries. Had he really been this bad off the whole time? He hadn't felt it, but Primus did he feel it now. He hadn't understood what Comet had meant when he'd said 'adrenaline' in response to Silverstreak asking why he hadn't noticed a giant gash on his leg during a race, but now he believed he understood.
The memory brought a somber look to Silverstreak's face. He had never found out the fate of his brother, nor Stryker and Lockcharger. Was Comet alright? He had to be alright. He couldn't stand the thought of never apologizing to his brother, and worse than that was the thought of never seeing Comet again. "C-Comet . . . S-Stryker . . . Lockcharger . . ." he gasped out, struggling to even say that much through his erratic ventilations and coughs. If his optics weren't already coated in cleanser in order to clear away dust, they certainly were now. Had that insane Cyclonus character snuffed Lockcharger? What if he'd found Stryker after that seeker had driven him off? Had those bombing runs hit Comet? Was Comet among the countless empty, battered frames that littered the streets? The thought made Silverstreak want to purge, the image of bots he knew staring blankly at him from the ground filling his processor until all he could do was grasp his helm and let out a horrible shriek, eventually cutting himself off with a choked sob. "IT'S NOT REAL! IT CAN'T, I DON'T BELIEVE IT! COMET!" he screamed, curling in on himself as cleanser spilled out of his optics and formed streaks across his dusty face. "THIS ISN'T REAL! PRIMUS, DON'T LET IT BE REAL! STRYKER, LOCKCHARGER, COMET!"
Time seemed to crawl the longer Silverstreak shrieked and cried, until at long last another error message popped up to say he'd run out of cleanser. He remained motionless on the ground, aside from his heaving vents, for another several cycles before he bothered to actually look at the long list of errors on his HUD. Finally paying attention to the errors blaring in his vision, he could feel his spark sink even further. Primus, he was losing energon from at least seven different major wounds, he was overheating, and his tanks were running on empty; and he didn't have a single drop of energon or coolant, nor anything to stem the energon flow besides his own servos. He was doomed. His vision had already been swimming for a while, and now he knew why. His spark was sapping energy from other systems to keep him alive. Had he survived all this time only to go offline now? What was he to do? He had nothing, he could hardly see . . .
*CRUNCH!*
A strange noise had Silverstreak going eerily silent almost instantaneously. Was someone there?
*SCRAPE!*
Panic overtook logic when he heard a second noise, his pink optics growing wide with terror. Whipping his head around, he finally took note of his surroundings, which were made very blurry from his rapidly failing vision. He seemed to have ended up in some sort of junkyard, by the looks of it, but more important to him at the moment was a small alcove in one of the scrap piles. He could hide in there. Errors flashed across his HUD furiously when he started frantically dragging himself across the rough, jagged ground towards his chosen destination, the fact that he was leaving an incredibly obvious trail of energon behind not occurring to him for even an instant. Once inside the alcove, he curled up defensively and used a piece of sheet metal to cover the entrance, then went as quiet as he could manage, listening closely for any further sounds. To his horror, he heard pedesteps. Pedesteps that were getting closer. By the time a servo pulled the sheet metal out of the way, Silverstreak had convinced himself that he was about to be snuffed.
The bot crouched in the opening of his short-lived hiding place was—had Silverstreak not been quite so energy-deprived—obviously not attempting to threaten him, rather, he seemed very concerned. "My word! Are you alright!?" he exclaimed, his optics growing wide when they locked onto the small puddle of energon forming beneath him. "Vector Sigma, you're going to shut down at this rate. Let's get you out of here—"
Silverstreak began to tremble when the mech started crawling closer. The alcove was not very large, and the mech was a mere mechanometer away when the light from outside glinted off a broken pipe at Silverstreak's pedes. Without stopping to think, he snatched up the pipe and brandished it threateningly at the intruder. "S-S-STAY BACK!" he shouted, his voice laden with static.
The mech reeled back immediately, holding his servos out in a placating manner. "Woah, woah, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he apologized. "I just want to help you, you're going to offline if you don't get fixed up soon."
He couldn't see. He couldn't see. All Silverstreak knew about this bot was that he was red and white, his vision was too blurry to tell him anything else. "W-who are you!?" he demanded, thanking Primus that the broken end of the pipe was sharp enough to be threatening despite the violent trembles wracking his frame.
"My designation is First Aid. I'm an Autobot medic," the bot answered, sounding patient despite the urgency in his tone. "What about you?"
"S-S-Silverstreak. I'm f-from V-Velocitron," Silverstreak replied. This mech was an Autobot? Lockcharger was an Autobot, he could trust Autobots . . . right?
"Velocitron!? How—?" First Aid stopped himself and seemed to shake his head.
"What? How what!?" Silverstreak squeaked, tightening his grip on the pipe.
"I . . . It's nothing, I promise," was First Aid's answer. "Please, put the pipe down and let me help you," he reasoned, carefully holding out a servo in offering.
Silverstreak stared at the offered servo, then darted his gaze back to the other mech's face. He had wanted to find Autobots . . . Slowly, he set the pipe down and took First Aid's servo, allowing the presumed Autobot to gently help him back outside. Once he was closer, Silverstreak could just make out a familiar red symbol on the other bot's chest before everything finally went black.
Windcharger recalled a time when he looked at a map and someone said that the Badlands were 'not that big.' He wished he remembered who exactly had said that so he could give them a nice slap to the back of the head, because however large the Badlands were, they were still too big. The last several megacycles he had spent driving across the horrendous stretch of land had been the worst ones of his life, the only company being the rusted remains of others foolish enough to make the trek through the Badlands without enough supplies. Well, and Sandstorm and Gears. Sandstorm wasn't too bad but Gears didn't count as company anymore. Not after he'd complained for five megacycles straight.
Regarding more pertinent matters—specifically the thing that had sentenced him to this Primus-forsaken land of the pit in the first place—there had still been no sign of the Lightning Strike Coalition. Which meant that firstly: he had nothing to report to Captain Rodimus, and secondly: he had to continue onwards, further and further into the Badlands, suffering through Gears's griping all the way until they found something. On the plus side, the longer they went without seeing Grimlock and the others, the more chance there was that they had made it to the other side of the Badlands. Which, of course, would mean that his little group would eventually be able to leave the slagging Badlands.
"—and have I mentioned how the terrain is scraping up my wheels? Really, I'll be buffing the scratches out for solar cycles—"
"Hey, Windcharger?" Sandstorm asked, cutting Gears off before he could keep going. "Think we should stop and refu—"
"Yes," Windcharger replied enthusiastically, already checking for a good place. He couldn't take much more of Gears's voice. "Over here." He led the way to an area that was, technically, no different from everywhere else in the Badlands, but was clearer of rust and debris.
Sandstorm pulled up beside him and transformed, making a show of stretching his limbs. "Primus, a bot wasn't meant to be in vehicle mode for so long . . ."
"That so?" Windcharger chuckled.
"Does that mean traveling can be called unnatural? Because I always told bots so, but they'd never listen to me," Gears grumbled, rolling up to the pair.
"Don't be so negative, Gears. Traveling's fun!" Sandstorm shot back, giving his fellow off-roader a playful thwak on the shoulder.
Gears snorted. "I'm not being negative, I'm being honest. Don't know what I expected you to say though, as I said, no one listens to me."
"No one listens to you because your opinions are gloomy, sour, and unpopular," Windcharger drawled, rolling his optics as he reached into his subspace to retrieve a cube of energon. He eyed the relatively tiny cube and sighed, choosing a spot on the ground to sit down and refuel.
"Well, your opinion wasn't requested."
"Ah, come on, guys, let's just enjoy our energon, shall we?" Sandstorm cut in, raising his cube above his head before taking a seat beside Windcharger.
"Oh, fine," the blue and red mech conceded. "It'll probably be sour though . . . kind of like my opinions."
Windcharger rolled his optics and took a drink, making a face at the cube. "Ugh . . . I can't argue with that opinion."
"Called it."
"Yeaaaah, can't say I'm in love with the taste our energon's had lately," the orange triplechanger agreed. "How long has it been like this? Six, seven orbital-cycles?"
"More like eight."
Windcharger groaned. The last thing he needed was to let Gears get started on another subject to complain about. "We only have to deal with this until the energon flow picks up again, okay?"
Sandstorm nodded. "I know. It's still annoying as frag though." He took another swig from his cube. "When do you think it'll pick up?"
"Dunno."
"Probably after I've rusted into a pile of scrap metal," Gears muttered.
Windcharger groaned. "Primus, Gears, would it kill you to be optimistic for once in your life?" he grumbled, casting the other mech an irritated look.
The grounder stared back with a dull expression. "It might."
The red and grey mech blinked, his frown deepening. "Now you're just doing it to spite me."
"So," Sandstorm blurted, putting an early end to whatever Gears was going to retort, "any ideas on what the Lightning Strikeowhozits might have been looking for?"
Windcharger sighed and decided to take the hint and drop his beginning argument with Gears, turning his attention to his more agreeable traveling companion. "It's 'Lightning Strike Coalition,' and beats me. Grimlock wasn't in the habit of sharing his hunches with anyone but his own team."
"Yeah. Best guess is he's going someplace where he believes there to be Decepticons," Gears added dryly. "Unfortunately for us, that doesn't exactly narrow things down."
"Grimlock like a fight or something?" the triplechanger asked.
Windcharger smirked and shared a knowing look with the blue and red mech. "Does Grimlock like a fight?" he laughed. "He's as bad as Blades. Only angrier."
Sandstorm's optics widened. ". . . Oh. So he's—?"
"—Got a thing for making 'Cons lose energon?" Gears finished. "Definitely. He collects their heads. Freaks us all out."
Windcharger could sympathize with the disgusted, slightly horrified expression Sandstorm was wearing upon learning that information. He'd made a similar face when he'd learned of the tank-former's . . . collection. "And Rodimus lets him?" the orange mech inquired.
Windcharger shrugged. "He doesn't approve, but if you knew Grimlock, you'd know it's better to let him do his thing and not bother him. Or Snarl and Slag. They get violent and stubborn when angry."
Sandstorm shook his head. "I'm really starting to see why you two weren't too keen on tracking these guys down."
"You know what Grimlock's gonna do if we find them?" Gears stated rhetorically. "He's gonna say: 'What are you doing here? I don't need the help of some weak-armored grounders, beat it!' and then we will, because he's a tank and we're not. A bigger gun means a bigger vote."
Windcharger rolled his optics. "I doubt Rodimus expected we'd be able to bring them back. He just wants us to find out where they've gone and report back."
"What if they're in trouble though? We can't do nothing if that's the case," Sandstorm argued.
"We'll figure that out if we have to. Otherwise, I like the idea of going back to Proximax," he continued before gulping down the rest of the sour energon in his cube. Expecting Gears to pipe up and agree with him, he glanced over at the other grounder, frowning when he saw him staring off into space. "Gears? The energon too sour for your CPU to handle?"
Gears glared at him for a nanoklik before pointing at something on the horizon. "No, I was just thinking that it's weird to see something that big in the Badlands."
Windcharger and Sandstorm followed the other mech's pointed digit to find themselves squinting at what appeared to be a large structure far in the distance. ". . . That is weird," Sandstorm agreed, a visor sliding over his optics.
Gears glanced at him and snorted. "Why am I not surprised that you have a magnification visor?"
"Because I'm a scout, and most scouts have them?" the triplechanger snorted back, focusing his attention on the horizon.
Windcharger furrowed his optic ridges at the structure and stood. "I'll bet that's their ship!" he exclaimed, transforming back into vehicle mode and taking off towards the presumed ship.
"It does look like a sh—Hey! Wait!" Sandstorm shouted after him.
Windcharger didn't slow down, rather, he sped up. He was sick of the Badlands, and if that was Grimlock's ship, then hopefully Grimlock and the others would be there and he could get out of this veritable valley of offlining.
Bluestreak fidgeted in place as he anxiously waited for Skyfire and Powerglide to finish landing. It had basically been a gift from Primus when the shuttle had arrived in the city with the aerial, and despite his presence being a fairly good distraction from his worries, Bluestreak was still eager to see Sideswipe. Sideswipe was good at distracting him when he started to dwell on things. However . . . he knew something bad had clearly happened on this mission since the latest dose of bad news had come from Optimus himself, so what if Sideswipe was just as in need of a distraction as he was? Then what would he do? Primus, what would either of them do?
He was about ready to slap himself in the face to silence his frantic worrying when Skyfire opened his hatch, allowing the bots inside to disembark. Ironhide exited first, followed by Warpath. By the time Bluestreak spotted Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, he had noticed something disturbing. Ironhide and Warpath weren't joking with each other or laughing about how easily they beat the Decepticons they faced. Powerglide wasn't bragging about his flying and no one was telling him to shut up. Sideswipe wasn't dramatically announcing that they'd arrived only to receive a slap on the arm from an annoyed Sunstreaker. Bluestreak's doorwings had already begun to droop by the time he saw Optimus, the last to exit. He didn't understand, Prowl had said they hadn't lost anyone, but Optimus was acting like they had. What happened?
Taking a quick vent to try to calm himself and banish his creeping panic, Bluestreak scurried over to Sideswipe and tried to don a friendly smile. "Hey, welcome back, Sides!" he said, grimacing internally after the words left his vocalizer. He still sounded like he was on the verge of hysteria, even with all his efforts to be otherwise.
Sideswipe looked up at him when he spoke, donning a weak smile. "Oh, hey, Blue," he replied, sounding oddly subdued.
Bluestreak's wings twitched as he got closer, giving Sunstreaker a quick half-smile too. "Hi, Sunstreaker."
Sunstreaker glanced at him and gave an acknowledging grunt, but otherwise didn't really react.
Bluestreak bit his lip and tried to reassure himself by saying Sunstreaker, at least, seemed to be acting normal. Unfortunately, his CPU reminded him that he didn't really know the golden-yellow mech all that well and he wasn't the type to wear his feelings like a badge regardless. 'Thanks, CPU,' he grumbled before focusing his attention back on Sideswipe. He quickly decided he didn't like the look on the front liner's face. "Um . . . you okay, Sides?" he asked quietly, playing with his digits.
"Huh?" Sideswipe said distractedly, dragging himself back from wherever his CPU had wandered to. "What?"
The praxian wiggled in place, clasping his servos behind his back in an attempt to still them. It wasn't working. ". . . You look upset. You okay?"
The taller mech blinked. ". . . Oh . . . that," he mumbled, fidgeting a bit himself. "It's . . . Well . . . No," he finally admitted with a quiet sigh. ". . . It'll . . . It'll get better though. I'm sure it will."
Bluestreak narrowed his optics a bit at his friend. "It?. . . And you don't sound like you believe that."
Sideswipe plastered a nervous-looking smile on his face. "What? Uh, heh, of course I do!" The smile soon wilted, however, under the smaller bot's disbelieving gaze. ". . . I have to, someone has to . . ." he said, looking at the ground.
At that, Bluestreak looked away too. ". . . Yeah, I know the feeling. I've been worried sick about practically everything since we heard Velocitron was under attack. Now I'm going crazy telling myself to relax but I can't because Chromia said the Autobots in Velocitron are probably offline and so are most of the neutrals and Prowl's upset and Optimus apparently had some horrible news and Marcon's been hit by a scrapping super bomb and who knows what else is . . . What? Why are you looking at me like that?"
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker both stared at him with nearly identical expressions of shock. "Marcon's been what!?" Sideswipe exclaimed, the question echoed in Sunstreaker's gaze.
Bluestreak blinked before sheepishly shrinking back. "I . . . What? You . . . You didn't know?"
Sideswipe shook his head. "No! What the . . . Super bomb!? What the frag do you mean, super bomb!?"
Bluestreak fidgeted again. "Uh . . ." he eloquently began before biting the inside of his cheek. "Well, we don't really have any details, but Marcon was bombed somehow a few megacycles ago. It wasn't long after the 'Cons moved on from Velocitron. I said super bomb because the explosion was huge you could see it from here . . . I wasn't looking, but the bots who were made it hard not to notice it happened," he explained. Sideswipe was having a hard time absorbing this, he could tell. It was much like how he'd felt, probably, the fact that it had happened not really sinking in for a while. Then, as Bluestreak found himself remembering, Sideswipe likely already knew the awful news Optimus had, so he was probably still absorbing that and Velocitron and now Marcon just like Bluestreak would once he found out what Optimus had to say.
". . . Primus . . ." the red mech vented, bringing a servo up to his forehead as he turned away. "That's . . . Primus . . ."
After fidgeting even more, Bluestreak inched his way over to give the other mech a hug. ". . . We'll be okay, right? It'll be okay?"
Sideswipe grimaced and returned the hug. ". . . I think so. I wanna think so," he replied, his voice shaky.
". . . Yeah, me too . . ." Bluestreak agreed. ". . . How bad is it? Prime's news?" he whispered.
". . . Bad. Really, really, bad," Sideswipe answered, tightening his grip for a moment before letting go. He looked around for a moment with a puzzled expression before looking back at Bluestreak. ". . . Where'd Sunny go?"
Bluestreak blinked again before looking around as well. That was weird, it was like Sunstreaker had disappeared. ". . . I don't know, I didn't see him leave. Sorry."
"It's fine," Sideswipe muttered, stepping around the praxian. "Um . . . I'm, uh, gonna go find him."
Bluestreak nodded. "Oh, okay. Maybe he went to your quarters?"
"Maybe. See ya, Blue," the other mech said, giving Bluestreak a little wave as he left.
"Yeah, see you," Bluestreak said back, returning the wave. After that he decided to hunt down Smokescreen. The bot wasn't the greatest company, but he'd help keep Bluestreak's CPU off of things. He really didn't want to think about Sideswipe's answer to his question.
The world had to be a strange place from his perspective. That was what bots always told Blitzwing, but they always seemed to forget one particular detail. He had never seen it any other way. One moment, anything and everything could enrage him at any given nanoklik; the next, he was hard pressed to care about anything. The third way he viewed the world, honestly, sometimes baffled even himself, but it was hardly abnormal to him. He had simply been sparked with three separate personalities all warring for control of his frame, and that was that.
Other mechs, such as two of very mechs stationed with him at present, preferred using more than one vehicle mode themselves, but oddly enough it wasn't considered strange when they did it. How . . . unfair. He could hardly bring himself to care though, luckily for his compatriots.
Examining his digits with the indifference of his old commanders, Blitzwing let out a bored sigh and simply watched his fellow triplechangers mine. He supposed it was lucky that he was nothing more than a guard. It made his job easy. On the other servo, it was too easy. Generally, guard duty meant blasting any curious bots who got too close. In the Badlands, however, it meant standing around for megacycles on end. Megacycles comprised of nothing but infernal silence and peaceable surroundings full of rusted corpses. Not to mention that the company was hardly good for conversation. Lugnut only knew of one topic, it seemed, that being Megatron's greatness. Oh, Megatron was a brilliant leader, of course, but one could only reiterate that fact so many different ways before it became dull; and Lugnut had long since crossed that threshold, to the point where the line was nothing more than a faint memory. How incredibly dull.
Dragging his optics away from Octane and Astrotrain, Blitzwing begrudgingly scanned the horizon in order to do his job. He didn't understand why exactly he needed to be there anyway. The insecticons had proven perfectly capable of doing the work on their own when that group of Autobot tanks had shown up, so why did Shockwave suddenly decide to assign extra hydraulical force now? It really made no sense.
"See anything?" A gravelly voice inquired, a dark shadow falling over the triplechanger from behind.
Blitzwing looked over his shoulder at the large, hulking aerial behind him. "As I said the last tventy times you asked, if I see something, I vill tell you, and you vill not have to ask," he replied dryly.
Lugnut growled. "It's too quiet out here. I don't like it."
"Vell, on that, ve can agree," Blitzwing said.
"It's only a matter of time before some Autobots come looking for their missing comrades," Lugnut continued, performing, by the looks of it, his own sweep of the horizon.
"Yes, but I don't see vhy Shockvave believed our support to be necessary. The Insecticons handled things just fine, from vhat I heard," Blitzwing grumbled in a bored tone.
"When one Autobot goes missing, five come looking," Lugnut shot back, squinting at what he evidently considered to be a very suspicious outcropping.
Blitzwing reluctantly nodded his agreement, crossing his arms when he leaned back against their ship. Lugnut had a point, but from what he understood, the captured Autobots were particularly notorious amongst the Decepticon ranks for being ruthless and incredibly powerful. He honestly doubted that any would-be rescuers would be an issue, but he supposed it was better to be over prepared than under prepared. Especially when energon was involved.
A soft noise sent his optics darting over to another outcropping that was slightly behind their ship, narrowing them in suspicion. ". . . Lugnut," he said quietly.
The aerial turned to face him. "What?"
"I heard something," Blitzwing explained, indicating the place he believed to be the origin of the noise. "I believe it came from over there."
"Then what are you waiting for!? Get going!" Lugnut stated with aggravation. "Nothing can interfere with Lord Megatron's plans!"
Blitzwing reached out and grabbed the larger mech's wrist when he tried to pass. "Vait, ve need to do this tactfully."
Lugnut blinked. "What? Why? Decepticons don't hold back and cower! We destroy all that opposes our great master!"
Blitzwing resisted the urge to roll his optics. "I do not believe that our uninvited guests have seen the energon. Ve need to ensure it stays that vay." He looked off to the side and took notice of an obscured path up to the outcropping. "Follow me."
Windcharger cringed at the sight before him while he hiked up the small hill. The closer he got, the more obvious it was that the ship they had seen was not Grimlock's, but rather Decepticon in origin. A realization which, of course, brought with it the question of what Decepticons were doing in the Badlands. Was this what Grimlock was looking for? Gears was right, he did seem to have been looking for a fight, but he was certain there had to be more to it than that. Grimlock wasn't stupid. Nasty, cruel, spiteful, and volatile, sure; but not stupid. He wouldn't have brought his entire team all this way just to fight a few Decepticons. Proximax was near the front lines, so there were easier ways to do that. No, it had to be something else. He just needed a better look . . .
::Windcharger, what are you doing!?:: Sandstorm asked urgently over the commline.
::Yeah, do you want to offline yourself? Because there are simpler ways,:: Gears chimed in.
::That's a Decepticon ship!::
::I know it's a Decepticon ship, and I also know that it probably has something to do with Grimlock!:: Windcharger replied, crouching a bit lower and rolling his optics. ::They're definitely up to something, and I'd bet my spoiler that Grimlock came because he learned of the Decepticon activity!::
::But it's dangerous! Would you at least hang on until Gears and I can catch up? You know, your team that you ditched at the camp?:: Sandstorm retorted in annoyance.
::I always did want a spoiler,:: Gears drawled.
::It's not my fault you two are slow!:: Windcharger shot back at Sandstorm.
::We aren't slow, you're just fast, and need I remind you again that you ditched us? I know Gears can get annoying, but that stings!:: the triplechanger argued.
::So, if we find Grimlock and he says he came out here for a reason other than 'Decepticon activity,' I can have your spoiler?:: Gears continued. ::That's how bets work, right?::
Windcharger rolled his optics again. ::Fine, whatever, Gears,:: he grumbled. It's not like he was going to be wrong, after all. ::If I win, you shut up for a deca-cycle.::
::Deal.::
::Anyway, I wasn't trying to ditch you, I was trying to get to the ship as fast as possible because I'm sick of this place!::
::. . . Fine. I guess I can understand that,:: Sandstorm begrudgingly agreed. ::Still, would you please stay put until we get there?::
::Okay, okay. Just hurry up, would you?::
::Lighten up, we're almost there.::
With that, Windcharger proceeded to back up a little. When he did so, however, he noticed something out of the corner of his optic. It looked an awful lot like . . . ::AGH! NOT WAITING, NOT WAITING!:: he shouted over the comm, backpedaling quickly to get away from the large, tank-like gun barrel that had appeared over the ridge.
::Wha—? Windcharger!:: Sandstorm squawked. ::We literally just talked about th—::
A loose bit of ground was knocked loose from his scrambling, sending him tumbling down the hill at the same moment the Decepticon the barrel belonged to decided to shoot. The blast sailed over his helm a moment after he slipped making it hard to be too upset at his fall once he hit the ground. Cringing at the ringing in his audios from the shot, he yanked himself to his pedes and transformed, setting his speed to full throttle.
::Was that gun fire!? What's going on over there!? Are you okay!?:: Sandstorm demanded, sounding panicked.
::Dented, but alive. 'Cons found me. A tank. Don't think he's alone,:: Windcharger explained hurriedly, looking back to see if the Decepticon was following. The tank that fired had disappeared, but in its place were a jet and a very large bomber, and they were most definitely following. In the distance, he could see a few more figures appearing over the ridge. ::Definitely not alone. Fall back, we're outnumbered!:: he yelped. As much as the other mech's complaining bothered him, Gears was right about one thing: they couldn't take on a force that defeated the Lightning Strike Coalition. ::They're probably protecting something. If we get far enough away, they might give up on the chase.::
::I suppose that counts as a plan,:: Gears griped.
::Couldn't we just ditch him? We're faster than tanks,:: Sandstorm said.
Windcharger hissed. Suddenly, he wished the tank was the one following. ::No, the tank's gone and disappeared. I've got a jet and a bomber on my tailpipe, and I saw more 'Cons on the ridge. Don't think they're following yet, but I'm sure they will if we stick around.::
::Primus! You think you can catch up to us?::
::Yeah. I'm fast, remember?:: Windcharger let out a startled yell when gun fire grazed his side, pulling left before pulling right in a zigzag pattern. Once he was confident that he was a difficult target, he activated his weapons and returned fire. His hopes weren't high for actually knocking the aerials out of the sky, but he could try. Surprisingly, he almost nailed the jet on his first shot.
Perhaps more surprisingly, however, was what ensued after. Windcharger heard what he was fairly certain was the jet shouting and cursing at him, when suddenly the jet transformed mid-air into the disappeared tank. This was not a good decision, however, and the triplechanger—as Windcharger now knew he was—seemed to realize this too late, screaming "OH SLAG!" loudly enough to be heard despite the distance and roar of the Autobot's engine.
"BLITZWING, WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?" the bomber exclaimed in a booming voice as his compatriot plummeted to the ground.
Windcharger stopped paying attention when the larger aerial shouted for the other mech to transform back into jet mode, instead veering to the side when he noticed a large outcropping. With the cover it provided, he might just be able to lose the pursuing Decepticons.
There was an eerie silence throughout the halls of Forza once the news had spread. Mechs and femmes alike found themselves paying extra close attention to their assignments, as even one little mistake could mean offlining when he was at the base and in such a bad mood. It was bad enough when Starscream was there, short as it was, but this was a whole different story. Lord Megatron himself had arrived with his third-in-command, Soundwave, not two megacycles before, and he did not seem happy. Their leader had clearly heard of the base's altercation with the Autobots, but the question wasn't if he'd do anything about it, but what he was going to do about it. There was no doubt that someone was going to be punished severely, possibly (probably) even paying for their mistake with their life.
"Soundwave, report," Megatron stated, his arms crossed as he strode across the vacated conference room towards his third.
"Situation: as described by Ransack. Sentries: failed to perform necessary area sweep in hall 4-G. Autobot intruder: entered through unsecured vent in hall," Soundwave answered, displaying information on his faceplate. "Mech on monitor duty: did not pay attention. Base: alerted to intrusion by one Runamuck and one Runabout. Starscream: alerted by one Acid Storm."
A dangerous glint flashed through Megatron's optics. It seemed as though Forza had a problem with lazy soldiers prone to gross negligence. This would need to be rectified. "I see." He turned towards the large windows looking out over the ruins of the city. "The sentries and the other mech . . . What are their names?"
Not in their quarters, not in the rec room, not on the landing platform, not with Ironhide, not lurking in the shadows glaring at everything that moved . . . Sideswipe was running out of places to look for his brother. To make matters even more frustrating, the other bots from his squadron kept giving him funny looks whenever he asked them for ideas regarding where to look. Like Beatbox.
"Me? How should I know where he'd run off to, all I know about the mech is that he likes to scowl at me," the larger grounder stated, shrugging unhelpfully. "You're his brother, don't you know where he goes?"
Sideswipe let out an aggravated hiss, planting his servos on his hips and kicking the floor. "Not really."
Beatbox's expression only grew more puzzled. "Seriously? He's that grumpy?"
Sideswipe blinked, looking at Beatbox like he'd suddenly grown a second head. "Wha—? No, it's just . . ." Sunstreaker had randomly decided to stop telling him things. "He's just . . ." an infuriatingly stubborn glitch at times . . . No, no, he couldn't tell him that. ". . . I-it's a new base, I don't know what spots he's gotten, uh, attached to, yet," he lied instead, donning a sheepish grin to help sell the story.
"Oh, I see. So it's less a question of if I know where he's gone, and more of a 'have you seen him?'" Beatbox said, buying Sideswipe's little bluff.
"Err . . . yeah." The red mech sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "We, uh, kinda just learned about what happened over at Marcon, so . . . Well, he just sorta disappeared afterwards, so . . . yeah . . . You seen him, lately?"
"Can't say I have. Sorry, Siders," Beatbox answered apologetically. ". . . What kind of place does he usually run off to?"
Sideswipe kept up his more flippant, unbothered expression with practiced ease, not letting on for an instant that he hadn't the slightest idea what his brother did with himself. "Uh . . ." Slag, if he didn't come up with an answer, the larger front liner was sure to catch on . . . but maybe Sunstreaker still liked the same places he did back home. That would make sense. ". . . Well, he likes . . . roofs. And balconies. Other scenic look-down-at-a-view-y places," he said, shrugging like it was fact and not an educated guess.
"Well, if that's the case, one of the, uh, 'locals' told me that there are some pretty nice balconies on the thirtieth floor. You oughta try there."
"Really?" Sideswipe said hopefully, nearly forgetting to act nonplussed. He cleared his intake and slid back into his more cheerful persona. "Thanks. This place is so huge, I was starting to wonder." He turned around and waved at the other bot, intent on tracking down the brother that had ditched him.
"By the way, you allowed to talk about that mission you two were sent on? I'm going nuts with curiosity."
The red mech froze entirely too quickly to play it off, his grim mood returning like a ton of I-beams. "Err . . . Well . . ." He sighed again, letting his shoulders droop. ". . . You'll find out soon," he finally answered, making a break for it a moment later.
Racing to the nearest lift, Sideswipe skidded inside moments before the door could close. "Whew, made it!" he joked, leaning against the railing. A glance around at his company, however, made his quiet chuckles fade away. Somber almost felt like an understatement in describing their expressions.
"Floor?" the one beside the control panel asked with disinterest, the look of despair on his face making Sideswipe feel very awkward.
"Uh . . . Thirty," he replied quietly. ". . . You okay?"
"As okay as someone who just learned his best friend is offline can be," the bot responded, not even glancing over.
Sideswipe felt sick. Right. Velocitron was taken and Marcon attacked. Which meant they'd just lost many good mechs and femmes. ". . . Oh." He shrank back and made his way over to the corner, getting comfortable on the floor when he noticed how many other stops the lift needed to make before reaching the thirtieth floor. He'd never liked feeling sad, or angry, but there were times when he just couldn't fight it no matter how hard he tried. In a matter of nanokliks, Sideswipe's expression perfectly matched the mood in the lift. So many bots, gone. The Decepticons made it hard to regret snuffing their sparks, squeamish or not.
He grimaced and folded himself up, resting his head on his knees. He had to find Sunstreaker. Hopefully his brother would be feeling accommodating, and not be in that strange, unfeeling-loner sort of mood he seemed to prefer lately. He could really use the other mech's company right about now.
The next couple of cycles seemed to crawl, Sideswipe's face soon becoming buried under his arms. He hated the thoughts going through his processor. He hated what he wanted to do to the Decepticons. He didn't like killing, he shouldn't be thinking that way, but he couldn't help himself. Remembering that Bluestreak's other siblings were in Marcon did not help.
"Hey, you. You wanted the thirtieth floor, right?"
Sideswipe looked up, giving the bot who spoke a hollow stare. "What?"
The femme pointed at the open doors. "We're on the thirtieth floor. That's where you wanted to go, right?"
Sideswipe stared at the open exit for a couple more moments before hauling himself to his pedes. "Right . . . Thanks." He stepped outside and took a couple of deep vents once the doors slid shut behind him. He then took off down the hallway, looking around the surprisingly empty corridors as he looked for these balconies, and any sign of his brother.
A flash of yellow caught his optic through a doorway, and had him skidding to a stop. He backed up and approached the entryway, relief flooding through him when he confirmed that yes, the source of the yellow was Sunstreaker. It seemed he did still like high, deserted places.
Sideswipe stepped out onto the balcony, crossing his arms atop the railing at his brother's left side. Out of the corner of his optic, he could just make out the look on Sunstreaker's face. While to the average observer it simply looked like an angrier version of his normal expression, Sideswipe knew better. The trick to finding out how Sunstreaker felt was his optics, and the other bot was looking more enraged and murderous than Sideswipe had ever seen him since they'd lost Silverspin. ". . . Hey, Sunny," he greeted awkwardly, forcing a small, lopsided smile.
Sunstreaker said nothing, his optics staying locked on the horizon. It wasn't until Sideswipe followed his gaze that he realized Sunstreaker was looking at the gigantic cloud of smoke on the far horizon.
After a few more nanokliks of frigid silence, Sideswipe decided to keep talking. ". . . So, this is where you disappeared to. You had me running all over the place trying to hunt you down, heheh." Still no response. "Beatbox noticed how much you glare at him, by the way, and I don't think he knows it's because that . . . erm, 'paint job' of his personally offends you," he continued, only to be met with more silence. Grimacing as his nervous laughter died, he felt his mood slipping once again. ". . . I'm scared, Sunny. Things haven't been this bad for a long time. What's next? When's it all going to stop?"
Sunstreaker's expression darkened further. "When every last one of them is offline," he growled, spinning on his heel and walking back inside without another word.
Sideswipe watched him go, going back and forth with himself over whether or not to follow. Ultimately, he decided to stay, slumping against the rail. So, Sunstreaker was still completely disinterested with helping him. He wanted to be upset, but frankly he was just too exhausted to really care. He just didn't understand it. Sunstreaker used to always be there for him when he was upset, and he was there for Sunstreaker. For some reason though, his brother now insisted on keeping him at arm's length, and seemed to have an inordinate thirst for Decepticon energon. With one last sigh, Sideswipe tuned back to the horizon, hoping to Primus that everything would turn out alright.
To say that the Decepticons of Forza were on edge was an understatement, that much was certain. Megatron felt rather satisfied with the terror he could see in the optics of the assembled troops before him, and they were most certainly terrified for good reason. They had failed him, miserably so, and they were lucky that Operation Trypticon was not only complete, but something he intended for the Autobots to learn of eventually. However, the fact that this did not have serious repercussions for him did not excuse incompetence. A lesson needed to be learned here, and he would ensure that this garrison would not forget it for a long time.
"Attention, Decepticons of Forza," he began in a deceptively neutral tone. "It has been brought to my attention that there has been a little . . . incident here recently. An incident which could have been avoided, had proper procedure and vigilance been employed. Now, the details of a complete operation is hardly a great loss, but the fact is—as I'm sure you are all aware—that it could have just as easily been something important which was stolen. As such, I find it necessary to inform you all of what happened." He stepped ever-so-slightly closer to the soldiers. "Corkscrew! Blazer! Deadbolt! Present yourselves!"
There was a slight scuffle while the summoned mechs scrambled to step forward, lining up at attention in front of their comrades. "Yes, Lord Megatron!" they said in unison.
Megatron sneered. They were either incredibly brave, or incredibly stupid. "Seven solar cycles ago, Deadbolt and Corkscrew here evidently decided that doing a security sweep of hall 4-G was unnecessary," he continued, addressing the crowd once again.
The crowd murmured in response, and more than a few frosty, hateful glares were directed at the mechs in question. Deadbolt and Corkscrew visibly blanched at their leader's words.
"The result of this was, of course, the Autobot infiltrator; none other than Jazz, one of Prime's thirds." At this point, Megatron began to let his displeasure seep into his voice. "Even still, this could have yet been prevented were it not for Blazer deeming his shift at the monitors the perfect time to take a quick nap."
The glares directed at Deadbolt and Corkscrew swiftly moved to the other mech.
"Yet even then, there was no reason why that Autobot should have gotten so far. Is this fortress not the pride of the Decepticons, second only to Darkmount? Are you not some of the best among my ranks!?" Megatron said, finally letting his rage show. "Idiots!" The soldiers could scarcely blink before he blasted Deadbolt in the head, offlining the mech instantaneously. "You're an embarrassment to my army!" he hissed, narrowing his optics at the two remaining mechs cowering before him.
"P-p-please, L-Lord Megatron, I-it won't happen again!" one of them said, though at this point Megatron didn't care who it was.
"Correct," Megatron agreed darkly, leveling his fusion cannon at the pair. They were in pieces before they could run three steps. Lowering his arm, he slid his gaze to the silent crowd before him. "If I ever hear of such incompetence from my soldiers again, I will not hesitate to deliver them the same fate! AM I UNDERSTOOD!?"
"YES, LORD MEGATRON!" the troops shouted, snapping to attention.
"Good," Megatron stated, turning to leave with Soundwave right behind him. "Someone clean up this mess. Dismissed!" The sound of hundreds of pedes racing to leave was the first thing he heard once the door had slid shut behind him. "Perhaps you will think twice before you disappoint me again."
Striding through the halls on his way to the main control room, many Decepticons gave him a wider berth than usual. They had likely not been at his reaming, as some bots needed to remain on duty, but could still guess what had happened. His fusion cannon was still giving off a bit of heat, after all.
Once he reached the control room, he keyed the door open and stepped inside, leaving Soundwave to lock the entrance. "Compara-7, contact the Hydrax Plateau," he ordered, stepping up to the main computer.
"Contacting . . ." droned the computer.
Soundwave arrived behind him just as the screen changed, displaying the image of the control room at the Hydrax Plateau. "Lord Megatron," the mech on the other end greeted. "I have been awaiting your call."
"Shockwave, I can see that your little project was a success. The bomb leveled more than half of Marcon in an instant," Megatron replied.
"Yes, project En-6 beta appears to have gone off perfectly," Shockwave agreed.
"Starscream: reports widespread destruction and panic," Soundwave added.
"Do I have your approval to create more, Lord Megatron?"
"You do," Megatron affirmed with a nod, "and I am eager to see what other weapons you can create from the dark energon."
"Of course, I have many theories and hypotheses to test."
"Do you have anything to report?"
"Ah, yes." Shockwave pulled a data pad out of his subspace. "As you know, my attempts to recreate the ancients' space bridge technology instead created a window to other planets, at a time in the past. Through this, I discovered creatures of remarkable size and physical prowess, and with designs that—with sufficient modifications—could become excellent soldiers or weapons platforms. Some Autobots that my Insecticons recently captured have proven to be suitable test subjects for this project. Results have varied, with one subject offlining from the procedure."
Megatron raised an optic ridge. "I see. Keep me updated on this."
"Of course." The scientist tapped a few buttons on the data pad before continuing. "I am also pleased to report that I have deduced the problem in the space bridge mainframe, and should be ready to test its effectiveness again once I have corrected it."
A smile pulled at Megatron's lips. "Excellent. Do you have an estimate for when you'll be finished?"
"I am afraid not, sir. Only time will tell how difficult a malfunction this will be to correct," Shockwave answered. "I shall keep you informed of my progress, however."
"Good. Keep at it, Shockwave, I want that space bridge." Megatron turned to leave, once again leaving Soundwave to terminate the communication. "Oh, and begin Operation Nemesis. I get the feeling my old friend didn't like what he found at the core."
Notes:
First Aid - G1
Blitzwing - Animated
Lugnut - Animated
Megatron - Primarily Prime/Exodus, with IDW, WFC, and FoC influence
Soundwave - Prime, G1
Shockwave - FoC