Chapter Seven

Had she really seen what she thought she'd seen? Hardly. Or so she was trying to convince herself. Prowl made little mention of the evening soirée, except to comment on Turnout and let her know that he had found himself on a fast shuttle back to the grit and grime that was their homeworld. And so, life moved onwards: battles, skirmishes and the occasional ground being lost to Megatron's space armada.

Despite her refusal to take an officer's rank, Flamestrike found herself in Prowl's office planning, calculating and overseeing the execution of smaller raids more often than actually being out in the field. Which was why, in the beginning, almost as if he knew that he needed to placate his agent, Prowl did send her out on a mission or two.

With Energon singing in her silicone veins, Flamestrike found the occasional outing was all she needed to be comfortable with her advisor role. Actually, being with Prowl has a lot to do with it, she thought, leaning over the strategy board, idly thumbing the Decepticon markers around a mock-up of Martha's Vineyard one day. Prowl had had to take a break to deal with one of the Twins' latest excursions, leaving her to play with the pieces until he returned. It was such a normal occurrence that Flame had long since given up being impatient; anticipating an interruption, she'd taken to bringing a reader with her, tucked safe away in subspace.

She could hear him now; his voice never raised, but his annoyance clear as he berated the red Twin – Sideswipe. He never seems to smile, she mused, shuffling two small Autobot sigils around the lighthouse. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, he will, but it's so rare. How was it that she, who had been a near-image of the tactician, could have loosened up after such a short time on Earth? And he had been here almost twenty human years! Well, part of it must have to do with him being second-in-command for the Energon mission. There's no telling what kind of strain that must've been. Still. Cocking her head, Flamestrike caught Sideswipe's plaintive wheedle and Prowl's curt rejoinder, effectively cutting off the Lamborghini's explanation. Curling her tail over her right thigh, Flamestrike peered at her disorganization with a critical optic. You know, that just might work …

"If we bring in a scout from the right, twenty meters in, anyone at this window won't see him coming," Prowl said, slipping up behind her in a move that caused Flame to shoot a tiny sparklet from her crest in surprise. "Otherwise, this is an interesting set-up. Now, what about the three reinforcements in the dunes?"

A delicate chime, rising in perfect harmony, sounded. Prowl lifted his upper half from where it was hovering over Flame's shoulder. "Yes?"

"It's just me, Prowl," Solarflare's voice lit over the comm.

Glancing up, Flame watched the tactician's brow ridge quirk – be it in humor or resignation, she couldn't be certain. "Do you have those intelligence reports?" he asked.

"Open the door, Prowl. I don't like talking to walls."

To Flamestrike's amazement, a deep grunt of amusement echoed within the cruiser's chest. "You associate with them often enough," he returned, activating the door via a wrist-link. Solarflare appeared, stepping through as the pneumatic door hissed shut at her pinion-tips. With a glance behind her to make sure all feathers were accounted for, Flare leveled a glare at the cruiser, folding her arms over her chest. For a moment, she looked as if she were going to give voice to a biting retort, but there was a slight swallowing motion, and she said instead, "No, I don't have the reports yet. Blaster's team is in the final stages of decoding Shockwave's transmission. You should have it within the hour."

Seemingly satisfied, Prowl nodded. "Then what brings you here?"

Flare grinned, her crest rising over her nasal ridge. "I came to drag Flamestrike away, if that's okay with you."

With a shake of his head, Prowl nodded. "Go ahead. My concentration's broken. Flamestrike," he continued, turning to address her directly, "reconvene tomorrow?"

"Of course," Flame told him, watching as he reached over her right arm where it lay on the table to shut down the projection, leaving just the markers on a green grid.

Walking over to the strategy table and appropriating a stool upon which she perched, Flare flipped over a leaflet that she had been holding in one hand. "I received a transmission this afternoon from Maxim magazine – that's a human male-oriented publication. They want to do a special femme edition – for charity," she tacked on hastily, perceptive of Prowl's interest in their conversation.

"Really," Prowl grunted, glancing over the printed page. "The last time we did something as a group for charity, Megatron froze us in altmode. And don't forget the ambush at the Boys and Girls Club convention in 1995 …"

"As far as I know, this is not something that they've even highly publicized. I ran a quick check over the 'Net to be sure. And," the grey femme added, "it would be bad press if they did so before even asking us."

"You would know that better than I," Prowl replied, looking at the flyer before walking around to the other side of the table, picking up markers and putting them away.

Ignoring the cryptic-sounding response from the tactician, Flamestrike reached down and scooped up the leaflet, her optics flying over the tiny human lettering. The offer seemed honest enough, but the poses included on the transmission's header and footer were fairly troublesome.

"What kind of publication is this?"

To her surprise, Flare colored slightly, her cheek plates lighting up a pale rose against the white. "Like I said, it's a male-oriented magazine." When Flamestrike continued to stare, her optic ridges begging for an explanation, Flare sighed. "You've seen the movies the Twins watch, right?"

Flame sat back, images flickering through her cortex before she came up with the scene Flare was referring to. Near-naked human females, perspiration and what seemed to be odd poses. "Y-es … Do you want to do this?"

Solarflare shrugged. "I think it would be fun. I have Optimus' approval to contact the company if anyone wants to do it."

"Solarflare …" Prowl took up the missive, the plain paper painfully small in his larger white metallic hand.

"Don't." Flare held up one taloned index finger, her golden optics narrowing slightly. "I got the third degree from Red, Prowl. He reamed me a good one for trying to compromise City security if we do small biographies. Bios, mind you, not crotch-bearing pin-ups." She huffed, struts sagging. "That came from Optimus. But, he thought it over and said we could do it if enough femmes wanted to. So far, I've gotten five."

Leaning back on her stool, tailtip flicking against her calf, Flamestrike regarded her friend. There were times when the gossip she'd heard from the other femmes made perfect sense, and this was one of them. Flame was fairly certain that if it had been herself presenting the information, Prime would have taken a page from Red Alert's book and shut it down. However, she hardly knew Solarflare to be of the persuasive nature, wheedling in order to get her way. Of course, who was she to judge her friend, when those same femmes were tittering on and on about her "relationship" with Prowl?

"What makes this company think that human males will want to see the Cybertronian idea of 'femininity'?"

"I suspect," came an opinion from an unexpected corner as Prowl returned the paper to Solarflare, "that they will simply be curious. For this reason, and hopefully only for this reason, is why I keep finding Sunstreaker and Sideswipe with copies of Playboy and Hustler." There was a pause, and he looked directly at Flare. "This does not mean I approve."

With more audacity than Flamestrike could ever hope to claim, Flare reached out and gently flicked Prowl on a doorwing. "I didn't expect you to. Just don't let me catch you on the set if this goes through."

"Perish the thought," Prowl replied with a ghost of a smile before he left them for the sanctity of his inner office.

Is there … something … I don't know about? Flamestrike wondered as she and Flare rose to leave. She was hardly as eagle-optic'd as either of the Ark warriors, but – well, maybe she was reading into things too much. That, and she was running low on fuel. Lost in her thoughts, she barely registered walking through the hall, or where they were going until Flare touched her on the shoulder plate.

"Are you okay? Did your session go well?"

Despite their friendship, Flamestrike was anything if not direct. She hated beating around the bush. "Prowl seems to smile more when you're around. Did you two …?" Would this ruin their friendship if her assumptions – indeed, some worm of jealousy – were correct? Regardless, that she even was asking the question told volumes about her personal development over the past few months.

Flare halted, crest ringing against her helm. However, the words she spoke were not ones of guilty admission. "Years ago, Prowl had this problem with 'fangirls' … he still does, if you've seen the mail he gets. Anyway, he asked me to help find a way to get them off of his back, so I started walking around with him in public, hoping my presence would deter hormonal females. It kind of backfired. I didn't know until Mirage told me years later, but it seemed Prowl was becoming interested in me." A heavy sigh lifted the femme's chestplate. "Don't worry, Flame. We've long since gotten over that – all of us. He might not acknowledge it, but I count Prowl as one of my 'brothers'. Like I told you before, he's all yours – if you can get him. And believe me, femmes have tried." She paused, looking at her taloned hands. "And if he smiles more, well, I do things like that. I'm painfully naïve sometimes." She chuckled softly, pinions fanning out behind her.

Flamestrike took in her friend's words, leaning up against the wall. Everything was a jumble and that made her uneasy. She liked her world nice and orderly, and she said as much to the grey comm officer. "Ah, but that's where you have an advantage over the others," Flare told her, a true smile erasing the last moment's embarrassment.

Her own shorter crest quirking, Flame eased up along the wall. Earlier, she might have caught onto Flare's line of thought, but current events seemed to have robbed her of that particular talent. "What do you mean?"

"I told you, you're alike in many ways. But you know how to have fun and aren't afraid to get a little loose. That's all Prowl needs. I'm sure he recognizes the sameness – which is probably why he keeps you so close at hand. Not that you're a half-baked infiltrationist, mind!" Solarflare added with a wicked chuckle. "C'mon … are you going to do this with me or not? Otherwise, I'll have to suffer Arcee all alone."

If leering human males were anything compared to leering mechs, Flamestrike was well within her rights to worry. "Do I have to pose like … this?" she asked, taking the paper from Flare's hand and gesturing to one female who was spread so far open at the crotch, she might pop.

"I figure they'll have to accept whatever we're comfortable with … otherwise, who's going to argue with a bunch of fifteen-foot tall female 'robots'?"

"Okay, you got me." Looping an arm around the smaller femme's struts, they walked to the rec room for a glass of Energon to celebrate.

In total, ten femmes of Autobot City found Maxim's proposal interesting enough to sign up. To save Red Alert another trip to Ratchet's office to have his cortex defragged, the small battalion of photographers, make-up artists, light specialists and other hangers' on were directed to set up near the training field. Initially, the make-up artists were confounded – they were well-versed in creating illusions on the faces and bodies of human females, but Autobot "skin" was not human flesh. One of the femmes, a sun-colored comm specialist aptly-named Vision, who worked below Blaster and Solarflare's tower, saved them from a potential coronary by supplying the team with various waxes, polish and a few gallons of Windex. ("For once, Viz' vanity came in handy," Flamestrike heard another femme murmur to Arcee.)

Non-essential personnel who were remotely curious about the project stood or sat about the perimeter, having been put there by the main photographer for blocking the light with their massive bodies. The femmes sat in a long line, each under the dedicated attention of two humans, mainly male.

"You're not a car or a plane," the woman who was rubbing polish on the right side of Flame's helm. "What are you?"

"She looks like this one here, Sandy," a thin, angular man perched atop Solarflare's strut said, spraying some liquid on the grey femme's facial planes in order to enhance their whiteness. "Some kind of bird."

After being admonished for moving at the beginning of her "make-up" session, Flame kept her head steady as she replied, "I'm a gryphon, my friend is an eagle."

Sandy's hands were oddly soothing as she moved to a new area on Flame's face. "Wow. So you're not limited to just cars and planes, then?"

"Obviously," someone muttered.

Sandy did not pause in her meticulous application, nor did she show any sign of acknowledging the speaker. Silently praising the woman for her courage, Flame continued the small talk, answering (within reason) any questions she had about the Autobots, particularly in regards to the odd male and female forms and mentalities they had.

With their day beginning at daybreak, the sun was just cresting the comm tower of Autobot City by the time Arcee, the first femme to be photographed, was led to the "stage" – a canopy of lights suspended on a black-metal structure. Watching from the sidelines, Flame was intrigued by the different ways the pink femme was encouraged to use her twin pistols.

Weapons seemed to be the theme of the whole shoot, though the photographers seemed to be interested in utilizing all the different "parts" the femmes came with: doorwings, jet wings … tails and pinioned wings. Being the last to stand before the flashing lights, Flamestrike found herself taking a long series of mental notes, particularly watching Solarflare and the way which she angled her body and made the most of her impressive span. For someone who thought the whole experience a lark (and professed naïveté), the grey avian femme seemed to be getting into the whole notion of robotic sensuality, her white face impassive yet her optics managing to convey smoldering glances at a point over the humans' heads. Hands raised, talons out; with pistol, without; wings fanned, closed; standing, sitting, squatting …

"Okay, Miss Flamestrike," Sandy said at her heel. "You're up."

Mm? What? Oh … so … soon?

Bladed tail swinging in a low, idle arc behind her, Flamestrike rose and padded over to where the Maxim crew was shifting the set for their final shot of the day. She passed Solarflare on the way up, the other femme grinning in her usual fashion, crest arced high over her nasal ridge. "Have fun," the grey femme told her in passing, walking over to a long table where the others stood, looking at several monitors as their pictures were uploaded.

It was at this moment that Flame decided to feel out of sorts. She, of all the femmes, had the least amount of time to acclimate herself to the quirks of this world and its dominant species. Idly, she wondered if the humans would be so keen to adapt to the Cybertronian lifestyle, watch the newsvids, or play games if their positions were reversed. She'd met some keen individuals in the past, but they had been the Autobots' steadfast supporters from the beginning.

"Miss Flamestrike? Over here, please. There."

A tall, thin blond man standing behind a tripod gestured to the brown and flame-colored femme, who turned to fix him a confused look. "Here?" she asked, pointing to a mark in the grass.

"Yes," he replied a bit testily, lifting the camera from the tripod and putting it to his eye. "I see you have wings … spread them for me – no, higher. Can you fan the pinions? Okay, now, look at me, right here – are you looking at me? Bend a little, Miss Flamestrike, this isn't an execution. Give me a smile …"

This is ridiculous, she thought, arching her back and trying to keep her tail from being cut off. The director's cries of "loosen up" were beginning to annoy her. With a pleading look in Solarflare's direction, Flame tried a tight comm-link: "Flare? C'mon … I thought I could do this. But … I can't!"

"Just loosen up, Flame," came the serene reply. "Really. It's okay. Let go."

"You're not helping," the infiltration femme shot back, perturbed at her friend's laconic answer. Across the field, Solarflare merely smiled and shrugged, before answering Vision's nudge and gesture at a screen with a comment that did not reach Flamestrike.

Casting her optics to Primus, Flamestrike ran the others' performances in her cortex as the main photographer gave a grunt of impatience and stalked up to her. "Can you do this or am I wasting resources, Miss Flamestrike?"

The male's taunt did not pass through her audios without hitting something important. Gritting her dental plates, Flamestrike's tail gave one, angry lash before curling around her waist. "I'm sorry. What can we do with this?"

Eyes lighting up, the photographer began nodding to himself and stroking his chin. "Many things."

"It's detachable …"

"Perfect! Now, some music! Music!" he shouted, dancing backwards to begin his orders anew.

Having given up any semblance of her austere warrior mystic, Flamestrike found that if she really did let go, it was fun. She finally felt the power that came from so many people watching your every move – encouraging you. Later, she would look back on the memories of that day, and the pictures that followed, and wondered what possessed her to put her tail there, but for the moment, it was fun.

An hour and a half later, her photographer was finally satisfied, and the crew as a whole rejoiced. Flamestrike, tired but content, thanked the man who had put up with her earlier balking and moved to where the other femmes were sitting. Most of the crowd had dispersed, but there were a few mechs interested in taking a sneak peak at the unfinished product. Unfortunately for them, the monitors were closing down and the crew packing to leave.

Taking a seat by Solarflare, Flame leaned back. "So, when are we going to see the real thing?"

"In about a month, I was told," she replied, flexing her wings. "You looked good up there. See, didn't I tell you that letting go was a good thing?"

Tiny flamelets danced above the gryphonic femme's head in embarrassment. "You did," she admitted with a small smile.

Solarflare grinned and parted her lips to tack on some joke when a loud shriek pierced the air. "DRONE ATTACK!" Arcee bellowed as a truck exploded into a thousand pieces. The pink femme leapt up with surprising agility, whipping out her twin pistols in a movement so fast, Flame believed them to already be in her hands. "Autobots! Forward!"

Glancing skyward, Flamestrike saw a fan formation of black and silver creatures arcing through the sky, the figure of the Decepticon Mindwipe beating his small wingspan in background. The drones had no form, animal or machine. They were merely rectangles with wings and a double-barreled laser cannon strapped to their underbelly. That they were drones made them easy targets – it also meant that they could cause massive damage due to lacking sentience.

"Protect the humans!" someone shouted, and as one, the femmes began to back up, forming a barrier between the panicking, packing humans and the barrage of laser fire that was streaming their way. Flamestrike had her pistol at the ready, small cones of fire rising above her head in answer to her mounting battle fervor.

The drones dipped, spread out. A group began to concentrate fire beyond the femmes' ring, no doubt on Mindwipe's order.

"Solarflare!" Arcee shouted. "Get up there!"

Out of the corner of her optic, Flamestrike saw Flare hesitate for a moment, caught between the surprise of being ordered by a junior and the hail of laser fire that thudded inches from her huge black feet. Wrenching herself into altmode, the eagle-femme took off, the roar of her boosters and the white-blue flame that trailed after drifting down to the fight below.

Flame darted, knocking Vision to the side as a drone came thundering past. Spinning around, she cleaved the mechanoid in two with one swift cut of her tailblade. Hot battery acid sprayed her in the face as the creature exploded in a flurry of sparks. Crying out, Flame threw up her free arm, trying to wipe the corrosive from her delicate facial planes.

"MOVE!" a mech voice howled, and she was thrown sideways and onto the trampled grass by a figure that exploded from thin air. Mirage spun on the balls of his feet and simultaneously launched the rocket on his shoulder into the "faces" of four drones. "Are you all right?" he asked, hauling her to her feet as two City jets ripped into the fray, lancing by Mindwipe where he and Solarflare fought in mid-air.

"I –"she began as two more drones zoomed by. Instinctively, she raised her tailblade to seer them from the sky when one turned on its side, the click of a detached bomb ringing in her audios. Mirage's howl fell on deaf audios as it dropped, filling her cortex with its explosion.