Chapter Six

Through the depths, a pair of green optics glowed, illuminating the silvery scales of the two fish that swam past her. The actual lake wasn't that deep and Flamestrike found herself touching the sandy bottom in a few nanoclicks. Tail floating freely behind her, she moved forward, focusing on the large metal doors that were attached to a short chute not five feet from where she landed. Wider than she was tall (more than double that slim height) the doors appeared to be made of reinforced steel, painted that ubiquitous Decepticon purple; floating closer, Flamestrike found a large key pad sitting in the upper right. No lights blinked, which was not surprising – on a clear day, they would've been easily visible. Drawing near, Flamestrike pulled a thin disruptor charge from another compartment in her right forearm. The device, when applied to the access panel, emitted a short yellow spark and a slight pop. Immediately, the doors groaned, sliding apart only a few inches before coming to a stop. No less aware for her success, Flamestrike pulled a pipe-like instrument from her right thigh and set it between the gap in the doors. Pulling at her lower lip reflectively, she activated the bar and moved to the side.

The tiny instrument suddenly sprouted three-pronged "hands" from either end; these claws latched onto the edges, taking a firm grip before the tube began to expand. The doors whimpered and moaned, crying out against the unfairness they to which they were being subjected. Optics flickering about her now and then, Flamestrike stood on the lake bottom, arms crossed, tail twitching behind her, watching the mechanical crowbar do its job.

A moment, then two, was all the brown and flame-colored femme could afford, lest the occupants come home early – or come flying through the doors. Once the bar had pushed the entranceway wide enough so she could squeeze between the gap, Flamestrike deactivated it, stuffing it away. Then, with a tug on her tail to get it through, she was in the chamber.

Water filled the tunnel, illuminated by a strip of lights along the "floor". Carefully, Flamestrike advanced, adopting a froggish swimming technique, which she augmented with a few easy flicks of her tri-bladed tail after some experimentation. Thus, croc-like, she delved deeper under the lakebed, gritting her dental plates in a vain effort to keep her system as cool as possible. The chill of the water that surrounded her helped ease the strain on her servos, but it could not reach the delicate circuitry that powered her biomechanical body.

Not that she wanted it to.

One hundred feet in (not that great a length to a femme of her size), the tunnel abruptly straightened. The steady line of track lighting split into two, one to either side of the infiltration specialist. And so, we begin, she mused, reaching up and out with both arms in an effort to lift herself from the chilly depths. Getting in was the easiest part of her job; getting out, intact, with your objective complete – this was the hardest. Keeping the first half of her long tail stiff, Flamestrike gave a powerful sweep of the flame-colored blade, shooting along the slight incline and onto the base floor.

Immediately, Flamestrike opened all ventilation points on her body, the feeling of lightheadedness taking a brief hold on her cortex before her system regulated itself. She took a deep breath for good measure, almost hearing her system sigh in relief. The band of pressure along her brow eased, and she stepped forward, taking in her new environment with a sweep of her crested head.

Her tail detached from her spinal column with a faint snick; transferred to her hand, it was no longer an ornament, or a swimming aid. Bladed and equipped with three flame jets, the femme could use this staff to ward off initial strikes before resorting to her pistol. Primus would know if all her hours training with pugel sticks would pay off.

Long associated with Decepticon equipment, Flamestrike made for the central computer. To either side of her were long tables, each with its own miniature laboratory. Beakers and tubes bubbled over blue flames; the acrid tang of burning chemicals washed all the memory of the water's cold fetidness from Flamestrike's olfactory sensors and she gave an involuntary sneeze to clear them. That she happened to be standing next to a rather large set-up with an undefined greyish metal was completely up to chance. "Slag," she hissed as her hip-plate knocked the beaker over. Quickly, she brushed the residue off of her right thigh, flicking her digits over the table before moving towards the main computer bank.

Set-up was a matter of placing the proton bombs on either side of the computer. With a thin strip of wire, Flamestrike tied them together, inserting either end into a slim timer box. With a flick of thumb over switch, Flamestrike set the charge to five minutes; dropping the box, she allowed her body's magnetism to rejoin tail to spine before making a head-long charge to the tunnel's entrance.

The unholy roar that filled the tunnel, strong despite the water's muffling capability, reached her audios before the first of two silver serpentine heads broke the film. Without stopping to think, Flamestrike set claws to floor, praising Primus for the unevenness of the tiling that gave her a good grip. She spun on one foot and headed back towards the lab, picking up any vial that came to hand and throwing it at the nearest head.

Alternating throwing and firing shots from her pistol, Flamestrike drew the Terrorcon Hun-grrr from the exit. The stench of burning chemicals – many of which were never supposed to come into contact with each other – gave birth to a miasma that permeated every corner of the underwater lair. The seconds were ticking away inside her cortex, making every moment she stayed in the base one closer to her final day on earth.

"Autobot infiltrator!" Hun-grrr rumbled from dual throats, his words more of a growl-and-chew than actual language.

Gotta move, gotta move, she chanted, spinning around to grab a huge beaker. This time, she did not heave it at one of Hun-grrr's twin heads; rather, she heaved it in the vicinity. The huge dual-serpent followed the trajectory, optic ridges widening as the burning chemicals ignited a trail of powder left by one of her earlier attacks.

It was all Flamestrike needed. Gathering what strength she had left, she sprinted forward, rolling under the huge creature's plated belly. Roaring, his olfactory and optical sensors no doubt positively burning from her assault, Hun-grrr lashed out with his thick tail, dragging a huge chunk of the wall above the femme's ducking head down to the ground.

3:34 – 3:33 …

Diving into the depths, Flamestrike transformed, ignoring the pain that resulted from compressing water into delicate circuitry. Without a second's thought, she activated her anti-grav boosters, streaking along the tunnel's floor, her whipping tail digging up lights as she moved.

3:00 – 2:59 …

Hun-grrr's roar sent shockwaves through the water, flowing out of the tunnel and into the lake proper. 2:30 – 2:29

With all the grace of a dead dolphin, Flamestrike turned on her side, easily sliding through the huge perforation in the tunnel doors – no doubt ripped apart by the Terrorcon in his rage of discovery. Energon pump going twice as fast as it normally would, the femme angled herself towards the surface, breaking the film of dander, bread and grass with a mild explosion.

1:30 – 1:29 …

Water cascaded from her arcing body, streaming off of pinions, haunches and tail in a thousand tiny rivers. Flamestrike reached deep, calling up all the hidden reserves her body sculptors had seen fit to equip within her. A deep vibration began within her chest, spreading quickly to each pinion until her whole body was one huge metal ball of disharmony.

3 … 2 … 1 …

A column of water, nearly the width and breadth of the lake, erupted underneath the fleeing femme. The force of the blast threw up thousands of gallons of water, silt and fish particles; more than one fin or tail of an unlucky lake-dweller found itself flopping onto Flamestrike's armor, before rolling off with the next cascade.

"FLAMESTRIKE!"

Dear Primus, she'd forgotten Windcharger! Homing in on the Minibot's comm-signal, Flamestrike plowed through the second upheaval as water desperately tried to get back to its source. As she passed over what remained of the lake, she could not see if there were Decepticon bits floating among the general destruction.

"FLAMESTRIKE!" While Windcharger's shout was more of an order, Flamestrike detected a hint of hysterics and remembered to reply.

"Mission complete. Let's go!"

All she received in acknowledgement was a slight "grunt" on the airwaves. Spinning on her inner pinion, Flamestrike angled her battered body towards the park's entrance. The mission's high carried her as far as Skyfire's welcoming bay, and then, flopped on a low bunk within the huge Autobot scientist, Flamestrike gave herself over to exhaustion, vaguely aware that her right side was beginning to itch.

"Thallium poisoning?" Ratchet nearly bellowed incredulously. "There's nothing in you to react to thallium!"

Flamestrike lay on her side in the medbay, hands wrapped around a Kevlar-wrapped pillow as another ripple overtook her right side. Through clenched teeth, she carefully debunked the CMO's theory: "I … am allergic," she pronounced. "The cores of my support system were mined on Helix-3, an asteroid that was completely stripped of its metals early in the second Golden Age." Pain overtook the agent; indeed, there was a slight greenish tinge to her brown exostructure – evidence of her words, as it was not algae. "My creator, Twilight, bought a large of trilithium from the mine's dealer, unaware of its alien taint. It wasn't until vons later that we found out that the asteroid's trilithium reacts badly when thallium is brought near." Memory of that time, of an agony so acute that she wanted to shutdown brutally sprang to the front of Flamestrike's cortex. Passing a hand over her face, the femme looked up to see the white mech gazing at her. Ratchet's mouth quirked in sympathy before his usual stern mien took over.

"Obviously, there is a cure," Ratchet said, folding his arms over his boxy chest, glancing to the far end of the bay where several Paradron medics were analyzing the effects of pure thallium on a sample of Flamestrike's inner support.

Another ripple brought a low moan from the depths of Flamestrike's vocalizer. Squeezing her optic shutters tight, the femme writhed in misery, fingers scrabbling at her armor, seeking to alleviate the itching. "A – aloe."

"Aloe? Where on Cybertron did you get aloe?"

Trembling, a fine sheen of coolant coating her lips, Flamestrike murmured, "Mother Beta – Twilight's creator – she had a small arboretum." Back then, when Flamestrike had gone by another name she had long since disregarded as part of an idyllic past, she had writhed in constant pain while Twilight scrambled the best scientists she could find. In the end, Flamestrike had had to enter stasis-lock to keep her cortex from overloading. How they found that spraying a mixture of aloe with a diluted lubricant counteracted the effects, she would never know – but she carried the formula with her ever since. In subspace and in her head.

With the world ringing in her audios, Flamestrike never heard Ratchet's slight sucked-in breath as she related her lineage. "Do you know how to make this cure?"

Without a word, Flamestrike lifted an aching right arm and, grimacing, opened her subspace port. Handing Ratchet the disc containing the formula, she collapsed, spent on the examination table.

"Put her under," the CMO ordered First Aid, reaching forward and closing the femme's optic shutters completely. With a sigh that lifted his huge box of a chest, Ratchet turned towards Prowl. The former second-in-command had been lounging, inconspicuous, in the corner ever since Flamestrike's symptoms had prevented her from reporting to him immediately after a cursory check-up. If Ratchet didn't know any better, the black and white cruiser's posture mimicked a mech from fifteen years ago. At least, in Prowl's case, he didn't feel obligated to hover like Mirage had. Regardless, the ambulance had more important things on his mind than to weigh the similarities. "Give me a couple clicks and she should be ready to report," he told Prowl, turning his back and running his hands under a thin stream of water. "How'd it go, anyway?"

"A complete success," the cruiser replied. "Though, we won't know the full extent until the scouts come back. Initial searches revealed a trail of Energon, oil and coolant, along with a mess of Terrorcon-sized footprints. I'm having the images analyzed as we speak."

Ratchet grunted. "So, this girl gets to keep her perfect kill record."

"No, it's her infiltration record that is perfect," Prowl corrected. "Her kill ratio is seventy-percent when engaged."

Another non-committal grunt from the CMO. "You can have her once we've gotten rid of the 'rash'."

Prowl merely nodded. He glanced at where Flamestrike lay prone on the table, turned and left.

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While Ratchet dismissed the appellation of "miracle worker" with a curt rejoinder and a nod, Flamestrike knew that he was puffing up inside. Her joints and inner support infused with the cure, the infiltration specialist spent the rest of the day in the CMO's tender care before being released with a clean bill of health. Following a brief respite in her room, she trudged up to Prowl's office to give her report.

To her chagrin, she had not succeeded in killing Hun-grrr, though, she had left him with extensive damage. Scouts had been sent to locate the Terrorcon, but he had vanished into the depths of some new lair, trailing oil, Energon and other precious fluids for several miles before staunching the flows – or finding allies. Since the Terrocon's demise was not a priority, the search had been called off after three days, and the Autobots returned to the City in order to prepare for the next wave of missions.

For Flamestrike, her work had barely begun. No doubt impressed by her skills (though he never admitted it aloud with those words), Prowl started sending her on one mission after the other – sometimes with barely a week between for recuperation. A running joke among the femme's fellow agents was to try and guess the "mission of the week": a midnight flight to the Andes, a twenty mile trek through the Amazon rainforest, some unnamed salt mine, an abandoned coal mine in Pennsylvania … Her successes earned her the nickname "Prowl's Iron Fist" due to the mech's ability to point out a target and for Flamestrike to subsequently destroy it. Of course, given Flamestrike's dislike for nicknames, she should have glared any offenders into submission … but she didn't. To her surprise, she liked it. And while Solarflare offered to go to Prowl on her friend's behalf, to tell the cruiser to lighten up, Flamestrike told her it was unnecessary. When Optimus Prime himself tried to elevate her to the rank of officer, she refused.

"An officer stays behind," she respectfully told the huge Autobot commander. "I'd rather remain a lowly soldier and do what I came here to do." Of course, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she colored. Prime was an officer who never let others do his work for him.

"Just keep returning to us in one piece, Agent," he replied, a quirk of his brow ridges letting her know that he found no disrespect in her candidness.

Sooner or later, the Decepticons found out who was blowing up their bases and Flamestrike's work suddenly became more deadly. After an ambush that nearly blew her wings off, Prowl saw the merit of easing off of his best agent. Broken and bleeding her life's fluids all over the snow, she had managed to set the bomb and was dragged away by a small contingent of Autobots before an explosion rocked the glacier. After that, Prowl took her off of active infiltration, instead indicating that she should help train the other agents.

At first, being out of action was irritating after so many moons of near-constant activity and it grated on the femme's nerves. Her growing friendship with Solarflare calmed her and she soon found that being the trainer could be just as rewarding as actually being on the mission. That she spent much of this time with Prowl … well, she soon found out what a bonus being locked in a strategy room with the tactician could be.

Flamestrike looked up at a knock on the door. She had been eagerly anticipating the return to her room after Prowl's debriefing, to her self-admitted "reward" for a successful mission. Ever since being reformatted into her new gryphonic alt-mode; she developed an appreciation for the creatures, even if they were mythical. (This form, of course, had saved her spark too many times to count.) Quickly double-checking her order information for one sculpted gryphon statue, she stabbed the "print" button while simultaneously rising from her seat to answer the door.

Wings cocked at a jaunty angle, Solarflare greeted her fellow avian-femme with a grin. "Flame!" A nickname? Yes, somehow Solarflare had managed to get Flamestrike to accept the shortened form when Flare complained that her full name took too long to say in times of peril. "The Twins managed to cook up another batch of their special brew without Red catching on. Blaster's got some new tunes he wants to share. Just about everyone's eager to relax for a bit. C'mon." Before Flamestrike could blink, the grey femme had latched on to her arm, pulling the startled agent from her room. "You are going to come out and join the party!"

Casting one last wistful glance behind her, Flame deferred to her friend's enthusiasm and both femmes traipsed down the hallway to the front gates of Autobot City. She hadn't attended any parties since the gaffe on the night of her arrival. Training, acclimating to the new terrain, and Prowl's briefings had taken up all her time. Of course, her naturally solitary nature didn't help matters much either. Flamestrike could survive in a crowd, but preferred the company of one or two friends at a time. Unable to completely mask her apprehension, Flamestrike's tail twitched from side to side, much to the amusement of Solarflare. Stealing a glance out of the corner of her optic range, Flame noticed that Flare's crest feathers were flicking in conscious mimicry of the bladed tail's writhing. Solarflare caught Flamestrike's optics and amber gaze met green. One last twitch, in unison. That set off both femmes' sense of the ridiculous and both started laughing, mock-swiping at each other.

"Okay, okay, I get it. I've been a real downer lately, haven't I?" admitted Flamestrike, wiping leakage from the corners of her optics, still chuckling.

"You have been working pretty hard. And I know you wanted the last mission to be a success," Flare shot the infiltration agent a sly glance, "so you could give some good news to your esteemed mission-planner."

Metal clanged as Flamestrike swatted Flare backside with the flat of her bladed tail-tip, the sound attracting momentary attention from two lone soldiers tramping through the foyer. Clamping down her control on the offending appendage, she composed her facial planes into a pleasant expression and replied mildly, "Well, I couldn't allow my perfect record to be compromised, no matter what – even if my trainees are involved." Cocking her head to the side, Flamestrike grinned. Solarflare met the expression with a slightly-lowered brow ridge and a soft smile. Flamestrike could tell her response wasn't fooling the comm officer one bit. She knew.

How can she know? Flame mentally countered. I barely acknowledge it myself. I just want Prowl to notice me. There's more to him than he lets on. He's been the tactician for so long … he's forgotten how to be a regular citizen … The long days and nights in the meeting room, in his office … what had begun as a healthy respect was slowly turning into something more. While she found herself loosening up, she could see no change in Prowl. Most jokes were met with a slight quirk of the mouth, nothing more; the Twins' pranks impressed him even less. What he did seem to be impressed by were her skills. Once, she had almost heard him admit how alike they were – committed to the cause, dedicated and given to respect.

Almost.

Flamestrike, however, had no reservations about commenting on their similarties. Prowl merely nodded, gave her a small smile. "I suppose that is why I have no problem with you," he once said. "You are one of the most competent soldiers I've ever worked with."

Then as now, Flamestrike felt the metal of her cheeks heat. A friendly, taloned hand clasped her shoulder joint briefly. Matching gazes again Flamestrike knew that Flare would never betray her knowledge.

Both femmes reached the entrance to Autobot City and the retractable ramp to the ground outside. "Where is this event taking place, anyway?" asked Flamestrike as she peered around the grounds without spotting revelers.

"Since Red has a major fit any time we let loose, the Twins managed to secure a nice little spot by the lake North of Lookout Mountain. We're still close to the City but far enough away from humans that our activities aren't usually noticed." Solarflare's eagle head snapped up to regard Flamestrike as the grey femme transformed. Firing her boosters, she took to the air with a cry of unrestrained joy, circling back for her friend.

Flamestrike smiled. Then she, too, transformed. Her beak and head panels formed up around her crest, her arms folded into her chest while shoulder panels opened, releasing her taloned forelimbs. Her wings unfurled, red primaries extending to their full length as her lower legs simultaneously folded back and down, exchanging petite "boots" for lion's paws. Her bladed tail-tip snapped open, lashing back and forth in the ecstasy of feeling. Cranking her anti-grav units, she timed a prodigious leap with the firing of her own boosters to launch her gryphon-form into the sky.

It was too short a flight before both winged forms spiraled down, transforming, to land in a lakeshore clearing framed on one side by the rocky mountain. Music blasted while groups of mixed Autobots intermingled, enjoying the darkening evening through chatting, dancing, and (of course!) imbibing in the various libations scattered about in conveniently located containers.

Solarflare had barely touched down before she was embraced by her bondmate Mirage. Stifling a pang of unidentified emotion, Flamestrike waited patiently, taking a moment to scan her new surroundings. In her immediate view she could see Jazz and Blaster, already cranking their tunes and generally enjoying themselves to one side of the packed down "dance floor." The music was heavily rhythmic and loud enough to be heard over the stomping gyrations of several Autobot mechs and femmes who looked to be quite enjoying themselves. Glimpses of her trainer Sunstreaker as he showed himself off to various admirers made Flamstrike smile again. Sweeping her gaze, she was unable to identify all the attendees, but ran a roster of those she knew through her head.

Sideswipe, of course. Brawn. Ironhide. There's Bluestreak, talking to Cliffjumper…

She backed up a few paces to the base of the cliff and leaned against it, quite content to watch the action from a distance.

"Well, Primus, Prowl's Iron Fist out and about? How's about joining me for a dance or two?"

Flamestrike looked up to see a soldier she never thought she'd ever lay optics on again: Turnout. The same lascivious mech who had made more than one rude comment during their early days in the City. While he wasn't exactly leering, his posture spoke of not-good intentions. "Not right now," she said, hoping he would take the dismissal and leave. But no; her reproach only caused the white and teal mech to double his efforts. Across the impromptu dance floor, Flame caught sight of Solarflare's crested head peeking up and around the mass of bodies, no doubt looking for where her friend had wandered. While Flamestrike's optics weren't as sharp as the comm officer's, she saw Solarflare's brow ridges raise and she pointed Mirage towards the escalation.

"C'mon," Turnout wheedled. "One dance. Don't be such a stiff. I promise I'll hold you lightly, seeing as you like to break."

Suddenly, the top of Flame's head felt hot; she saw Turnout's optics bulge as tiny flamelets started to shoot out of the red-orange-yellow crest along the top of her head as her anger intensified. "I said 'no'. Go away."

A slim black hand clamped tightly over Turnout's shoulder. Half-turning, the engineer saw the tall, lithe form of Mirage rising behind him, Solarflare mantling nearby. "The lady does not require your presence any longer," the Tower-born mech said softly, at his most urbane. Inwardly, Flame sighed; it wasn't as if she couldn't handle herself. But, mechs will be mechs, no matter how many bases you blew up.

Clearly, Turnout had no idea to whom he was speaking, for he brazenly batted the spy's hand away. "You got your own femme. There aren't that many to go around."

Mirage frowned, looking down his nose at the white-turquoise mech and transforming himself into the haughty personage he had long left behind. It was such a smooth transformation that Flamestrike was momentarily taken aback by its suddenness. "I told you to leave her alone. I'm giving you one chance to remove your festering bulk from my presence before my olfactory sensors die of the stench."

Flamestrike saw the mech's servos twitch as he brought his arm back to slug Mirage in his light blue face; she jumped forward to restrain Turnout, but the spy was quicker. He sidestepped Turnout's swing and, reaching up, grabbed the offending arm, twisting it behind the engineer's back with an audible snap of servos. "I really do not like party crashers," the spy drolled, wrenching Turnout's dislocated arm higher over his head. "And fighting. That, too." With a final twist, Mirage shoved Turnout into the arms of two off-duty protectorates, who, by their clenched dental plates, were not happy at having to leave the party to deal with him.

The gryphonic femme watched them haul Turnout away before turning back to Mirage. "You didn't have to –"

Snobby elitist gave way to the mien she was used to. Mirage smiled ruefully and shook his head. "I don't fight Flare's battles, but I figured that he would make your life a living hell one way or another if you beat him up yourself."

The possibility of retaliation from some nameless friends had not occurred to the brown and flame-colored femme. Realizing that, despite her misgivings, Mirage was correct in his assessment, Flame nodded. "Thank you."

The spy gave her a wink and walked away, only to be swallowed up by the crowd without seeming to try. By her side, Flare crossed her arms, watching him leave with a gleam of pride in her golden optics. "Do you want to dance?"

"Mm." Flamestrike considered, realizing that the celebration was for her, in part. She couldn't keep standing on the sidelines if she was going to try to have a life outside of infiltration. "Sure!" Solarflare grinned, white dental plates against charcoal lips, and was off and running, the gryphonic femme on her huge heels.

Hound's affable ribbing had brought Prowl down here tonight. He stood on the sidelines, a cool mug of oil in one hand, listening to Beachcomber and the tracker chatter about various odds and ends. He might have warmed to the event had the two off-duty protectorates not brought him the disgraced Turnout. A simple locking of optics told the engineer that his time on Earth was terminated and he was going to be sent back to the battle zone that was Cybertron on the next available shuttle. Prowl was not going to have his greatest asset abused!

"Well, would you look at that," the geologist mused appraisingly when Prowl turned back around. "Seems Flare's gotten your agent to lighten up at last."

Prowl turned, his far-seeing optics catching a glimpse of flame-colored crest and a snatch of grey, black-tipped wings rising and falling above the general height of the crowd. Logic failing him, he asked, "What are they doing?"

Hound chuckled deep in his huge, boxy chest. "Seems Sunny got a hold of that anti-grav generator the humans have been experimenting with. Looks to me like the girls are floating above it."

"Well, that's the end of …"

Beachcomber reached over and gave the cruiser a friendly slug in his shoulder plate. "Let it slide, man. Your chick took out ten strongholds. Let her have fun."

Prowl glanced at the blue and white dune buggy before consigning himself to silence. Hound and Beachcomber took the silence for resignation and moved closer to the action, no doubt to cheer the two femmes on with good-natured hoots. Setting his mug aside, Prowl leaned up against one of the tables, one arm folded across his chest, the other rubbing his chin; thoughtfully, the cruiser turned his gaze, searching the crowd. There was Mirage, feet propped up on a crate, a glass of high grade in one hand, bemusement etched into his facial planes; next to him, Hound squatted, making motions with both hands in relation to the action before them. Between anecdotes, the tracker was eagerly watching the two femmes, the look on his face unmistakable.

With a blink of blue optics, the cruiser terminated that line of thought. He had better things to do than to ruminate on the potentialities between his comrades. Despite this, he continued to watch. Flamestrike was one of the best soldiers he'd seen many a von; she was dedicated and completely straightforward with her logic. Her kill record and infiltration scores had more than impressed him, which was why he had requested that she be put under his command in the first place. After she continued her unbroken line of completed missions, Ultra Magnus had stopped by and complemented him on acquiring such a competent agent.

A small, secret smile graced the graven facial planes of the tactician. Across the floor, Flamestrike caught his optic … and smiled back.

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A/N: Part of this chapter was co-written by Anne "Tyrrlin" B., who owns Flamestrike.