Chapter Eight

Sunlight, golden and deliciously warm, roused her from slumber. Along her back, skin twitched in momentary disappointment; a tufted ear flicked to vacate an adventurous fly from venturing too deep. One luminous emerald orb, than the other, opened to gaze across the green-gold plain. With a longing sigh, she stretched, feeling powerful muscles ripple from shoulder to flank, to the long, feather-tipped tail. In the same motion, the great, red-pinioned wings at her shoulders fanned out, drawing more of the sun's rejuvenating warmth into her body.

With one more stretch, she stood, balancing her lean frame on a set of talons and a set of paws. Curious, she sniffed, drawing the golden afternoon into her nares, scenting for prey. The wind shifted, bringing along its delicate fingers the odor of gazelle … and of something that did not belong. A low rumble eased along her chest, rising up through her throat, carrying with it a hint of an eagle's angry keen.

She sniffed again, tilting her avian head and stepping forth from the camouflaging cover of the brush. Canine … but not.

With a snort and a growl, she shook herself, bunching powerful hindquarters that spurred her into a mighty leap forward. The air was too heavy for flight, but this did not mean she was powerless. A gryphon – a perfect melding of feline and avian – could run as well as she could fly.

It had better not be one of those ranging hyenas again. Shouldn't they have learned from the last time they tried to stake a claim in her territory?

Grass, warm and flexible, was flattened to the ground as she thudded over the plain, scattering the odd ground squirrel and rabbit, lest it, too, become prey. The interloper scent grew stronger as she raced on, drawing the wind into her lungs, letting it sing in her veins. Her pupils narrowed to mere pin-pricks, then suddenly flared until they seemed to dominate her eyes. One leap, then another carried her over a strange rise in the otherwise smooth plain.

An undignified squawk leapt from her throat at the scene that lay spread before her: a great sand-colored pyramid rose from sand so white, it gleamed as new-fallen snow. Seated upon a golden throne embossed with silver and bejeweled with sky-blue opals and cabochon-cut emeralds was a creature so black he seemed to be one with the shadows. Gold-leaf decorated about his white eyes – the shimmer of pearls and not the opaqueness of the blind – and the inside of each large, triangular ear. A plate collar of the same cut as the throne lay at the canid's thick throat; a simple loincloth covered his middle.

As she padded, uncertain, atop the rise, the canid's angular head lifted, and he stared at her, mouth slightly open. Blinking gold-embossed lids, the man-shaped black dog crossed odd-jointed legs. "Now you," he began in a voice that carried across the sandy expanse as if he stood at her ear, "are someone whom I never expected to see. Your grey-plumed friend, yes, but you?"

Wispy memories flowed behind her eyes at his words. Taking her silence for the confusion that it was, the huge black man-jackal lifted his head to the clear blue sky, then fixed her with his pearly eyes. "Though you look to a foreign god of a metal world, it is to me that you have come. Most interesting. Come, then, gentle warrior – or, shall I say, Tears-of-the-Sky? Come to my side and safe you shall be while your living metal body heals."

Tears-of-the-Sky … She shook her head as the wispy memories formed jagged points that were now stabbing into the soft, weak parts of her mind and soul. So formal … so … old

A name she had given up at the destruction of Iacon and her life as she had once lived it. "No," she breathed, liquid realization filling in the gaps created by the piercing memories. "Skytears was a softer soul who knew nothing of war, who would never think to raise her hand against another Cybertronian." She padded slowly, close to the canid and the pyramid. "And you – who are you?"

White fangs against pink gums and black lips gleamed. "You may call me 'Anubis'. I am the Guardian."

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Flowers, balloons, get-well cards and the odd plush decorated the bedside of the gryphonic femme. Solarflare sat by her side, as she had taken to doing over the past month that her friend had been in stasis-lock. Others had filled in when she could not: Trailbreaker, Hound, Windcharger … even Mirage and, Primus above, Prowl.

What Ratchet and First Aid could not figure out was why she was still locked. Her body's repairs had been concluded weeks ago; all connections from spark to greater system had checked out, yet, the one signal that remained distant was the one coming from her central processor.

"It's as if she's in a coma," Ratchet observed, visibly concerned. He ran tests and more tests, but they all came back with a variant on the same answer: Flamestrike slept, deeply. And what she dreamed of, not even the most advanced technology could discern.

What had been a full convalescence bay had dwindled to Flamestrike. The drones had wrecked massive amounts of damage upon the photo shoot, resulting in the deaths of two humans and the wounding of several more. More than one Autobot limped away from the battle with laser burns in his or her chassis. Solarflare bore long gashes in her wings and several deep holes in her legs where Mindwipe had tried to bite her into submission. Mirage, being mere feet from the explosion that knocked Flamestrike offline, spent a week and a half in traction, complaining now and then about how his cloaking mechanism had been thrown to hell and that they had better find a way to fix it because he was useless without it. Perceptor was able to locate parts and, with Wheeljack providing the engineering, the pair managed to cobble together a respectable duplicate for the spy's high-priced gadgetry.

Now there was but one.

A copy of the Maxim special edition lay on the table beside Flamestrike, unopened.

"No change?"

Flare looked up from the newsfeed she was perusing and into the serene blue optics of Optimus Prime. "No," she sighed, turning to look at the monitor embedded into the slab's headboard. She'd stared at those figures so often, she nearly had them memorized. "It had to happen sometime, huh, Optimus?" Flare continued, voicing the thoughts that had plagued her these past weeks.

Glancing about, the supreme Autobot commander located a chair that would fit his bulk and took a spot on the other side of the berth. "Yes," he replied his tone low and a touch sad.

Quietly, Flare nodded. Optimus' huge chest rumbled with his own sigh, and he glanced around the tiny corner of the recovery bay, noting the gifts from well-wishes. "A chess set?"

Solarflare peered over her strut. "Oh … Prowl plays against himself sometimes while he sits."

"Why don't we play a round or two, Solarflare?"

A pack of cards appeared in the grey femme's taloned hand as she asked hopefully, "Cribbage?"

The subtle shuffle of crystal on tile. Murmured comments. The give and take of her ventilators. The steady beat of her Energon pump.

Thoughts, fleeting like feathers on a warm summer breeze, flickered before Flamestrike's inner optics before vanishing, leaving her with the sense that something great had happened, and now she completely forgot it all.

Sniffing, she caught the barest whiff of a vaguely canine scent before it, too, disappeared. Vision returned, slowly: spotty, grainy and in black and white. "Uhhh …"

"Quiet. Let me get Ratchet."

A voice, familiar. And she slipped under once more.

Idly, Flamestrike flipped through the magazine that had nearly been her last act on earth. Overall, she was pleasantly surprised, even mildly embarrassed at the fact that the femme whose tail was poised in such a provocative manner was, in reality, her! There wasn't much to impress her, but she did like the fold-out poster that had all ten of them in a row – which was amusing, because they had never formed a chorus line. Silently, the gryphonic femme praised the geniuses who had managed to "Photoshop" the warriors into a convincible group shot.

"So, what do you think?" Flare asked as Flamestrike folded the magazine closed and put it on a rolling tray at her right. She would have placed it on the nightstand, but that was covered with every conceivable get-well token imaginable.

"I think I'll put that poster above my bunk." Giving Flare a smile, Flamestrike reached out and grabbed for a tall cup of oil that also occupied the tray. Someone, probably Flare, thought it funny to stick a huge human straw into the liquid.

Though saddened by the loss of human life, the brown and flame-colored femme was grateful that none of her fellow Autobots had taken anything worse than she had.

"Want to try a walk around the bay again?" Flare suggested.

If I do another circuit, my servos are going to pop – even the new ones! "Mm, no, not right now. Maybe later."

Flare nodded. "Well, don't blame me if you get the riot act from Ratchet about strengthening those supports," she chuckled softly. "If you need me, I'm just a comm-call away."

"Yes, creator," Flamestrike answered dutifully with a small smile of her own.

When she had left, Flame settled against the headboard, picking up the newest feed that Solarflare had gratefully left on her chair. A month out of the loop, Flame was quite content to just sit here with her restructured legs propped up, a Kevlar pillow behind her back and catch up. They had never been able to explain the sudden attack by Mindwipe and his drones; Ultra Magnus concluded that the Decepticon mystic had just taken it upon himself to do as much damage as he could. There was no information present in the recovered drone bodies – just layer upon layer of instructions. Red Alert, however, was not satisfied and beefed up security: there were hidden cameras and auto-guns stationed around the huge perimeter a few days after the ambush.

Once she had drained the lukewarm oil down to its dregs, Flamestrike counted herself caught up – enough to want to turn on the vidscreen that hung from the ceiling and watch The Young and the Restless.

"I have a suggestion, if you are open to it."

The unexpected progenitor of the voice was enough to tear Flame from a particularly intriguing plot point. Prowl was walking towards her from the main bay entrance, a small box in his hands. "Suggestion?" she echoed, confused and slightly flustered by his sudden appearance.

"Well, I can't have my best agent souring while she recovers, now can I?"

Am I … dreaming?

But no, there it was: that small, quirking grin that she had almost bitten Solarflare's grey head off for. It was just as fleeting now as before; Prowl's facial planes quickly slipped into their usual mien and he sat down in the chair vacated by the grey femme two hours before. Shifting on the berth, Flame peered into the open box. "Well, no," she conceded. "What is it?"

"Swing that tray around." Once it was in place, Prowl began to meticulously unpack the contents and set them with precise movements onto the simple wooden board. "Chess," he continued as he put the pieces in order. "A strategy game similar to Envergo on Cybertron. I take it you've played?"

Peering at the pieces, Flame shook her head. "Not really."

"Indeed?" Prowl paused in his set-up and looked right into her green glass optics, his brow ridge furrowed. "I find that hard to believe."

"Because I'm so good at getting in and out of places?" she asked with a laugh, and was rewarded with a slight – dare she say, embarrassed? – smile in return. "Never played. I guess I've always relied on two things: agility and instinct. I used to be a runner for the Council, so I always had to be somewhere five nanoclicks previous. In and out with a missive or two, then onto the next."

Prowl nodded. Obviously, he'd read this somewhere in her personal file. "Well, I shall count you as a quick learner."

Even if Flamestrike had heard that Prowl was rarely taken in a chess match, she couldn't have cared less. She missed the one-on-one interaction that she had come to relish over the past few months, the close-working atmosphere that was two heads, two cortexes, pressed together, working as one to solve a particularly nasty problem.

Prowl's assumption was right on the money. Once the tactician laid out the basics, he did not go easy on her. Through trial and error, and more than one lost pawn, Flame's understanding grew. Prowl beat her every time, but she did manage to keep the king a little longer.

The set itself was simple: polished black and grey granite pieces arranged on a cedar board, the spaces marked in similar colors. The game might have had a humble origin, but Flame could tell that the pieces were well-cared for, despite being used so often. The board even carried a faint hint of recent varnishing.

Well into their sixth round, distant thunder rumbled down the bay's expanse. Though Prowl did not look up, the set of his lip components and brow ridge spoke volumes: the Dinobots were coming.

More accurately – one Dinobot was thudding into the bay. The great bulk of the Brachiosaur Sludge tramped along the floor with a Dinobot's usual unfettered glee. Turning his wedge-shaped yellow head this way and that, Sludge finally zeroed in on where Flamestrike was situated. "Ahh … Sludge see Flamebird awake. Have present for pretty catbird."

"Sludge …" Prowl cautioned, but the Dinobot was already making his way over to where they were sitting. Rather, all he had to do was take a few steps and turn his head, he was that large.

Inclining his head, Sludge extended his long neck until the tip of his blunt snout was at Flamestrike's propped-up feet. As the femme watched, wide-optic'd with curiosity, a small pink form in a silver jumpsuit shimmied over the back of Sludge's head and slid down the long expanse.

"I made this for you in art class, Miss Flamestrike!" The only offspring of the Autobots' oldest human allies, Spike and Carly Witwicky, stood on the end of Sludge's nose while the Dinobot proceeded to go cross-optic'd watching him. Daniel Witwicky held out a slightly sticky, but elaborately stickered wooden box. "I even painted a flame a'top for you," he told her proudly. "And your name."

Flame leaned against the Kevlar-padded pillow, quite taken aback by the young human male's generosity and thoughtfulness. The simple fact that she'd had such limited contact with humans – especially the Witwicky clan – and that Daniel had taken the time to remember her, touched her more deeply than any other gift that surrounded her bedside. "I'm honored, Danny," she told the boy, watching him blush with pleasure. "Let me see, where should I put it?" As she turned to make a show of finding the best spot for the gift, Daniel hopped up and down at her feet, turning to Sludge.

"See? I told ya she'd like it!"

Sludge bobbed his head up and down. "Yes, yes, like it …" The Dinobot's saurian face stretched into a wide grin, as if he, too, had spent so much time and effort on the project as the boy had. "Like it …"

Thump! Thump! went the Dinobot's long tail, its heaviness and the careless ease Sludge wielded his limitless strength enough to cause the walls to shake and the beds that lined them to start jiggling along the floor.

"Sludge!" Prowl called out sharply, rising from his seat as Flamestrike rolled off the berth and onto the floor, vibrations echoing along her new joints.

Abruptly, the proud thumping ceased. At the end of the bed, Sludge's face pulled down into a downward slope that would have been comic had not the Dinobot's feelings been so adamantly true. "Sludge apologize," he murmured.

From her position on the floor, Flamestrike saw the shift of metal "muscles" as Sludge swung his huge tail around from behind in a great arc that knocked Prowl's chess set from the tray, cleaving the lovely cedar in twain and smashing the granite pieces into disrepair. The motion complete, Sludge stared at the damage with the tip of his tail stuck in his mouth, optics canted sorrowfully. What had merely been an expression of sparkling embarrassment and solace turned into destruction.

Having seen the same shift as Flame had, Prowl jumped backwards, lest he suffer the loss of limb and not just the loss of his beloved board.

"What is this racket?" Ratchet hollered, stomping into the recovery bay with as much oomph to his step as the Dinobot naturally generated. "Sludge, get your ugly bulk out of my bay – PRIMUS. Where is my patient!?"

"Here," Flamestrike offered, setting one leg, then the other, under her and rising with no help from the berth.

"Get out, get out!" Ratchet chanted at Sludge, until the Brachiosaur with his human passenger slowly trudged out of the bay, his tail clamped tightly against his haunches. "Now, let me have a look at you …"

Wearily, Flame allowed the CMO to examine her. Her answers came in monosyllables as she watched Prowl wordlessly pick up the shattered pieces of his chess set and reverently place them within their box. Saying nothing more, he left.