Sleepy.
The road stretched on beyond the horizon, coloured in the last glimmers of burning auburn by the now-set sun. Dust ran wild through the desert and across the road, coerced along by agitated winds. Deep purples foretold the approach of a silver-spangled navy sky, but Bluestreak could not find the energy to admire the paradox of the dramatically subtle changes: he was too preoccupied with channelling his last craps of energy to getting back to the Ark.
Prowl's negotiations with the human bureaucrats had failed, resulting in them losing more face than they had before the negotiations. It would fall upon the second-in-command to give the bad news to Prime and the rest of the Autobots, along with an explanation on why they were no longer going to receive so much fuel-rationing in the future. The silver-grey Datsun did not envy the other's job and was glad that being a 'grunt' could be considered less demanding in it's own ways.
"Prowl," he called over the comms. "I need to rest."
"We're nearly there, Bluestreak: just another three-quarters of a mega-cycle and we'll be home."
"…Alright." Even the drumming of his engine became a strain of energy – a vigour-seeping melody that separated him further from reality. Even with the fervent dirt figures running all about them, the air out here was clean and fresh and colder than the indoor conference room that they had been squeezed into. Cycling crispness through his system took some of the strain away from his pistons and axels and he settled into the routine drive back to base. Contrails lined the sky above his route, guiding him like railings that he could lean on dependently until he reached his recharge-berth. Stars had begun to appear in the upper bleakness, twinkling in patterns foreign to the ones that he had known on Cybertron. By Primus, his gears were weary.
"Prowl, I really need to stop for rest…"
"You can stop back at the base, Bluestreak." Irritation coloured Prowl's reply. "You've come this far, you can go the rest of the way; stop acting so young." The gunner flinched but said nothing, turning his attention back to the road. For a spliced second, his optics shuttered. The terrain jostled him to and fro but he had become used to it to the point where it no longer recalled his concentration. If he paid them no attention, the thin, patchwork clouds almost felt like the looming, metal buildings of his faraway homeland, with little lights illuminating them from inside. Yes – he was back on Cybertron, back before the war had torn living into memory. The motorway went ever-onwards, free of all traffic for him to career wherever his whim took him. Prowl's tail-lights became neon signs glowing in front of him, the alien smells nothing more than chemicals carried through the troposphere, and those moons, those twin-moons that glowed ever brighter, closer and closer – why, they could almost be one of his long-lost friends…
"Bluestreak!" Somnolence was torn away. The green mini braked, its driver thrusting the wheel as far right as it would go. Bluestreak hit the car side-on before he even applied his own brakes, the vehicle spinning and somersaulting away from the impact until it crumpled against a boulder, broken fragments flying up into the air and scattering about the ground like falling hail. Diesel gushed from the car's fuel tank, the car's horn beeping unremittingly even though no hand was setting it off.
Prowl transformed and sprinted over to check for any survivors, radioing the base for urgent help. Pain coursed down Bluestreak's left side where he had collided with the human car. The younger Autobot transformed with difficulty, damaged to the extent that it was not just sleep now that kept his mind from functioning. Swaying and unable to stand, he dropped onto his knees, using his hands for support. Even this was too much, and as he lifted a hand to his head, his body succumbed to the weight of gravity. Consciousness absconded.
"Bluestreak! Bluestreak, get over here!" Prowl did not notice the other Autobot behind him, fears setting in about the state of the humans. He pulled the driver-side doors off their hinges, an aggrieving gasp passing from his internals into the outer world. The driver slumped into Prowl's hands, red fluid leaking over his digits. The human's head was drooped at an awkward angle and Prowl could not find a pulse. The driver was dead, the passenger beside him was dead, and even the little, long-haired form in the back would no longer want for air.
End.
A/N: I'm now only going to write up to thirty 'Bluestreaks', so if you want to request one, now is your last chance. This is not on a 'first-come, first-served' basis: I'll let you decide for yourselves what criteria I'm looking for.