Chapter Four
Friends were a luxury that Flamestrike had weaned herself off of as the years of war dragged on. Certainly, she had companions and people she trusted to pull her spoiler out of harm's way, but a true friend? Most of them were long gone on to Primus when the Decepticons stormed Iacon in the fatal strike that took the life of Sentinel Prime. Either they were too slow, in the wrong place, or succumbed to desperation – runners, intellectuals, honor guards … trying to stave off the hordes of evil Guardians.
Her creator, Twilight, had been one of the many to die that day, trying to defend the University. Flamestrike had been one of the lucky ones, fortunate enough to make it to the tunnels and into hiding. In the days that followed, she had managed to scrape together enough Energon to make it to one of the Autobot revolution camps; there she had seen Optimus Prime and his consort, the fierce warrioress, Elita-1 make a speech. Strength of intellect and vons of running had her raising her hand when the call for soldiers was announced. She was placed under Elita's command, one of a handful of elite warrior femmes which included the indomitable Chromia. From there, she honed her skills delving deep into enemy territory, usually one or more bombs strapped to her sides – otherwise, she infiltrated and learned, burning rubber to spy another day.
Over the vons, the naïve runner had been replaced by the agent and soldier, a veneer that threatened to never come off. That was, until she came to Earth.
She would be the first to admit that she believed Solarflare's uncouth actions and seemingly flippant attitude were restrictive. Later, she would find that it was an attitude almost universally shared by residents of the City. Light-years from the main war, the Ark warriors (and later, their reinforcements) were able to unwind, and develop skills and ways of coping that their Cybertron-bound fellows were unable to cultivate. And, perhaps, it made them even more determined – and deadly. Certainly, for some, this was all too true – from what Flamestrike witnessed of "the Twins", as the massive red and gold mechs Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were called.
After a month on Earth, Flamestrike tried to make friends with the pink femme Arcee, only to find her presence grating. It wasn't that Arcee was unpleasant, or a terrible soldier – she was neither – but somehow, the gryphonic femme found that she couldn't empathize with wheeled vehicles anymore. That, and she chanced upon a conversation Arcee was having with a few Paradron medic femmes. Called over to their table, she had sat down and was thrown tail-first into a private bashing of the senior femme, Solarflare. Apparently, as she was to learn, the two had a mild grudge betwixt them, stemming from an incident last year when Arcee unknowingly pulling the grey eagle's comm-plug, causing her to go into shock from information overload.
"Didn't you apologize?" Flamestrike had asked when no one brought the obvious up.
Arcee gazed at her with a mixture of pity and confusion. "I tried, but her screams brought the CMO up and he started to dress me down in front of the Chief Comm Officer, Blaster, and Ultra Magnus." She gave an eloquent shrug. "After that, I decided it was worthless to try and be her friend. She was too busy with that spy of hers and her little clique to care."
"She's the Ark favorite," one of the other femmes, a red-gold glider named Strata, had piped up. "The mechs of the star cruiser will bend over backwards for her. I've seen it."
Pathfinder, a blue and purple with red trim, nodded. "She carries those wings of hers like a human ruler and a cape. I see her sitting atop the Comm Tower like she owned it – and in altmode!"
If she hadn't met Solarflare that first day, Flamestrike was certain she'd be inclined to accept the other femmes' opinions. Certainly, Flare had her moments, what the Ark warriors called her "mother hen mentality", but, deep inside, she was more like Flamestrike – unused to female-minded companionship. In this, the brown and flame-colored gryphoness found that she could sympathize.
After that conversation, Flamestrike politely avoided their company and spent more and more of her time with Solarflare, learning the ins and outs of her new altmode – which included chucking herself off of various high-points of the City. When questioned about the legitimacy of these exercises, Solarflare chuckled and explained that her mentor, the jet Powerglide, had taught her the same way – and look what she could do now! (After seeing the grey femme somersault into a perfect transformation, Flamestrike was secretly impressed, and even sought out the mech in question.)
In short time, the two had become friends, with the inclination towards great friendship. Which was why, at this moment, they were practicing beating the ever-loving slag out of each other with pugel sticks, under the feral gaze of Sunstreaker.
"We're not powdering our faces, ladies," the golden mech barked, pacing their tight circle with large, deliberate steps. "Flare – slaggit, no, Flame – no, FLARE. Fraggit!" he roared so that they dropped their sticks and looked at him as one. "Someone's getting a name change, and I vote the newbie."
Across from her, Solarflare smiled sweetly. "How about 'grey one' and 'brown one', Sunshine?"
Flamestrike resisted the impulse to titter, knowing that she had no standing with this war machine. It was good to feel that way, though. Stoicism had its place on the battlefield, but not here.
Sunstreaker leveled those eerie, feral optics on the grey femme, and then on Flamestrike, who, despite herself, took a step back. "How about 'get back to work'?" he suggested coldly, gesturing with one thick yellow hand. Flamestrike watched the shift of the other femme's facial planes and saw that she was biting back an oral retort. Slowly, she turned and lifted her stick to square off. With a small smile, Flamestrike lifted hers, and the soft beatings began anew.
Long black fingers tapped purposefully on the railing before their owner turned away. Prowl walked back to the small table in the observatory above the gymnasium and reshuffled his datapads, waiting for the others to arrive. Hopefully, the assessments of both he and Elita-1 would not prove misleading.
With a light hiss, the double doors slid back, revealing Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, and Magnus' right-hand, Springer. Immediately, the green triplechanger made for the railing and peered down at the fast and furious mock-combat. He whistled low through his helm-vents. "Not bad. The brown one has more control, though. She's the uber-agent?"
Prowl gestured. "Your seats, gentlemen?" When they were settled, Optimus at the head of the small table, Prowl at the end, the former second-in-command answered the air commander's query. "Yes, she is."
Ultra Magnus, the commander who had replaced Prowl in terms of rank here in the City, leaned forward. "By no means am I questioning your judgment, Prowl, but what makes her suitable for the infiltration of the Predacon facility?"
As always, the black and white cruiser was prepared. He took up the appropriate pads and passed them to the three. "As you can see, Flamestrike comes with a near-perfect history of kills, and a perfect infiltration record. She is quick, agile, and her form has been specially-designed to combat those of the Terrorcons and Predacons."
Quietly observing the actions below, Optimus Prime spoke up. "She has one of the best times on the course, I see. All in altmode?"
"For the most part," the cruiser replied. "During her first run-through, she demurred on her skill-level and I had to send Mirage in earlier than I wanted to."
Ultra Magnus raised his pad. "It says here that the counter-intelligence agent described her skill as uncanny."
Prowl nodded. "High, and unlikely, praise from Mirage." He didn't add that the Ligier was slightly affronted at the possibility that this femme would be better than he, with his high-priced gadgetry and time-honed hunting skills.
"Indeed," Optimus confirmed when Magnus turned his huge, questioning optics to the Autobot leader. "This mission is supposed to be low-key, a simple in and out job, as I understand it. The risk factor is high enough to challenge her, but to pose no direct threat."
"And I am sending Windcharger to tail her and to provide backup as necessary," Prowl added.
"Windcharger?" Springer asked, his grey facial planes twisted as he tried to place the name. "Oh – the impatient one."
Prowl suppressed a sigh. He was professional enough to accept the change in command, as well as the additional troops, but even he had to (privately) admit that things had been much easier when Earth held only the Ark warriors. None of this second-guessing. "Windcharger has improved over the years. He is perfectly capable of standing long watches. He is also fast and light enough to maneuver in the woodlands."
Optimus' presence was a mere formality these days. Now, the people who needed to be impressed the most were towering white, blue and red Magnus, and his green flyboy, Springer. "I'll take your word for it," Springer said, getting up to stand at the rail.
"And she'll be ready in five days?" Magnus queried, studying the information on the pad judiciously.
Something foreign trickled into Prowl's logic center, and it took him a nanoclick longer than usual to identify the emotion: he was on the verge of second-guessing himself. Usually, no one questioned his tactical choices (Red Alert notwithstanding); he had the privilege of being unerring in his opinions, and those being readily accepted. There was the possibility that Magnus, in his new position of City Commander, was taking a more jaundiced view of the war, now that the main branch of Decepticon forces were in space: off Cybertron and Earth. However, scouting reports had Megatron's forces gathering up for a large strike on their homeworld, which, in turn, prompted the building of the two moonbases.
In short, Magnus was not in the mood for backing long-shots, even if they came with Prowl's seal of approval.
The black and white did not proclaim what others might have in the heat of the moment ("She's ready now."); rather, he nodded. "I've personally overseen her training regimen, Commander. She will be ready."
Satisfied on the outside, Springer and Ultra Magnus bade Prowl and Prime farewell, and left the observatory. Once they were gone, and the doors shut, Optimus stood up and walked to the railing. "And how does Flamestrike feel?"
Looking down at the two femmes, now sitting on benches, laughing and rubbing at their armor with large, fluffy towels, Prowl gave an eloquent shrug. "When I proposed the mission to her, she seemed eager – almost overly so. She gave no indication that it was above – or beneath – her. She has confidence in her skill, but completely lacks hubris."
At that moment, Solarflare looked up, spied them, and waved. Beside her, Flamestrike followed her friend's gaze; there was a moment's hestitation, and then she, too, waved. Optimus inclined his head, as did Prowl. Flamestrike's optics rested a little longer than her friend's, and she had to be prodded back into conversation.
"If she can help remove all Decepticon taint from this world, than I have no qualms," Prime commented quietly, looking more worn and drawn than Prowl had ever seen his leader. "Keep me updated on her progress, Prowl." With a clap on the back, Prime left the cruiser alone in the observatory.
"I wouldn't try to impress them," came a low, cultured voice from the ether.
"Who said I was trying to impress anyone?" he retorted calmly, not even turning around from his louging position on the rail.
"I saw your face – Magnus got to you."
"I'd rather not hear words of disseent from you, Mirage."
A neon-orange cube emerged from thin air, bringing with it the lithe Ligier. "Hey, Prime asked me to observe. I'm telling you what I saw."
"Them, not me."
Mirage shrugged. "It's all the same to me."
Down below, the two femmes were hanging up their gear and leaving the facility. Prowl watched them go: two avian femmes, each walking with a grace so similar to the other. He'd ruminate on the theory that the form made the person later; for now, he had other, more pressing, matters to attend. "You can go now."
Beside him, Mirage chuckled, then faded. A slight stirring of air told the former 2IC that the Ligier had boosted the rail and landed with narry a sound onto the padded floor below.