Author's Note: Hey there! I'm sorry this chapter's a bit later than the others; it was giving me some trouble. :p That and life caught up with me, Christmas presents needed to be bought and I had to undergo some surgery. Nothing too big, but I'm still a little sore. Thanks to those that reviewed; it's greatly appreciated.

Anyways, In case I don't update before then, Merry Christmas! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot.

Chapter Three

"Normal speech."

Inner personal thoughts.

"Comm chatter."

:Bond Speech:

In the beginning they were called criminals; lawbreakers; no better than petty thieves. Some of them were; some of them didn't believe in freedom, only the power of Megatron and the victories he won. They were like sheltered carrion birds beneath the wings of a savior, utterly oblivious or uncaring toward the true nature of their shelter. They laughed at the impassioned speeches of the miner who led them, and that he was naive was a forgone conclusion amid their ranks. These were no different from petty criminals save for their supposed affiliation with a swiftly growing sect.

Then their leader, a simple miner designated Megatron, confronted the council with his brash speech and empty promises of destruction; his 'paving the way for freedom', as it was said. Though his tongue was clever and his words careful, he was disregarded; jailed for improper conduct. By the end of the cycle, the cell was discovered empty, a clear path of carnage leading through the disciplinary facility to the open air…through the front doors.

Then mecha whispered - "Revolution" was spoken in soft hums where there was no light or audios to overhear; in alleys and bars and even libraries.

It became immediately apparent at the first attack that Decepticons were no religious fanatics, nor criminals seeking vindication. The officials and security forces at the Iaconian docks were efficiently and brutally slaughtered. Vidfeeds showing the massacre were sent out all over Cybertron, their source untraceable, their presentation unhindered by the most skillful of the Council's resources. During their duration, it was said that Cybertron became still.

It was the silence that was so horrifying, some said. The screams of the officers were loud and high, ripped with static, but their murderers made no sound.

"No! Please don't…!"

Some screamed that they couldn't feel their own bodies anymore, vocalizers stuttering and sputtering with an organic splatter as energon choked their intakes. Others screamed because they could.

"I have a sparkling!"

The blades cut and sawed methodically. The blasters fired. The cycle ended, and flashes of weaponry discharge lit the empty black screen, some distant, some near.

After that presentation, no one believed the Decepticons were anything but monsters. They walked like heroes through conquered cities, but they dealt with their enemies like the most brutal of criminals. They had the idealism of Primes, but the shrewdness of the Council.

Those were the days Shockwave was proud to call himself a Decepticon. Now, he felt like banging his one-eyed helm against a wall - not the most logical inclination he had experienced, but still, the idea was most alluring.

"I haf seen it!" Howled the spidery perversion before him in a childish wail, optics half-crazed with fervor.

"That would indeed be a fascinating experience, if it were at all possible." Shockwave seethed beneath his cool exterior, intonations flicking against his unbelievably stupid fellow scientist like laser fire, and from the doorway (the coward) the medic flinched audibly. Shockwave tried to picture again the ancient vidscreen filled with violence, imagining Scalpel replacing the officers in every frame. Perhaps that would satisfy his hungering aggression-

"Obviously," The tiny bot sneered condescendingly up at him. "It is possible, for I haf seen it."

-Hah. There went that attempt.

Shockwave slammed his single hand upon his workspace table, denting the high-grade, microfibre enhanced material. "You use that phrase as though it will solve answer my every objection." He growled, words fast and acidic, engine gunning with a thunderous, low register rev. "However, if you were at all familiar with the method one uses in examining the intricacies of scientific observation, you might realize that your method is flawed."

Hook cringed. It was a merciless, brutal strike - especially since Scalpel shared the larger mech's occupation. 'Method', in a scientist's line of thinking, was everything a mech was. Stupid, really, but the point was that Shockwave had essentially called Scalpel "fragged up" to his face-plates.

Scalpel, however, was no ordinary scientist. Concerned only with the fascinating spark duo he had discovered and the potential study of their internals, the little mech continued with a mocking tone. "If he beliefes sat ze possibility is not prezent, zen perhaps ze only option is to perhoof it to heem…" Apparently, Scalpel was willing to do and overlook anything (in fact, it was quite possible Scalpel's obsessed processors hadn't noticed he had been insulted; personal injury was not related to Science) to get Shockwave to inspect his 'samples'. Hook had no doubt the little mech fully intended to drag the senior scientist there if he refused to come willingly, despite obvious size difference, mass tonnage, and, of course, Shockwave's arm - or rather, the massive cannon he had replaced his arm with.

The aforementioned mountain of irritation blinked his single optic at Scalpel, apparently impressed by the mech's lack of reaction. Or maybe he was well and truly pissed that his insult hadn't garnered a response. Hook couldn't tell since Shockwave didn't really have a face.

There was a massive and tremulous intake of breath. "It appears that you will continue your disruptive chatter unless I comply. For the sake of time and efficiency, my only stipulation in examining your findings personally is that you never enter my domain again, unless specifically directed to do so."

"Done!" Chirped Scalpel immediately, and he turned on his many heels, scuttling speedily in Hook's direction. For a moment, the medic stiffened, wondering if he was to serve some unpleasant scientific purpose in the mechs' plans, before he realized that the door was right behind him.

Hook turned almost as speedily as Scalpel scurried, wrenched open the massive doors, and fled. The matter was now somewhat resolved; Scalpel wouldn't be coming to him, anyway, and Hook had many things to do. Things that did not involve a Shockwave. Especially a Shockwave that had been dragged from his favorite pet projects to examine an impossibility. Behind him, thunderous pede-falls kept bizarre time with the tickatickatickatick of Scalpel's clawed appendages against the floor, and the two scientists disappeared from view down an adjacent corridor.

The medbay was unfinished, and so Hook took a left turn at the next junction. The hallways were quiet, and for once, clean. Hook approved of both, and-

There was blue on the floor.

Weapons unfurled and snapped into place before Hook's processors could fully understand the scene. In battle, a mech did not have time to discern harmless paint from deadly acids, or the bang of a firework for the discharge of a blaster. More often than not, when a mech had fast-acting - if paranoid - defense protocols, that mech survived. Energy blade and blaster held at the ready, optics already humming with the power rerouted to them, Hook blinked, and allowed the area before him to be properly analyzed.

It dripped from the ceiling. There were seams in all the surfaces within Decepticon headquarters, as well as ventilation systems and heating ducts installed throughout the weaving hallways and spacious living quarters. But the spaces between floors was too crowded with internal necessities to have allowed energon to flow through the cracks of one floor, past structural beams and wiring, and into the hallway below…unless there was a lot of it. Hook allowed battle protocols to take full control, and signaled a ship-wide red alert. Immediately, his comm went off:

"Ze patients! Zey haf escaped!"

One floor above...

Darkness seeped from every corner, staining the air black. He had switched his optics off, so that there would be no visual way for the enemy to track his movements. His scrambler would blind any mech scanning with personal mods; the likelihood of a medic capable of in depth scans being present in this facility was close to zero. He was counting on that less than one percent, though. It was his twin's only chance.

Sideswipe sank crimson digits into the energon-coated frame of his other half, all but dragging the familiar body against his own. Cold, sticky plating sizzled against his own red-hot systems, and he smelt steam. Sunstreaker was fully conscious, his optics powered off, frame tense and…tentative. That was the only words Sideswipe could think of to describe him; Sunstreaker was treading lightly, digits still, iron control holding every line of him steady. Sideswipe could feel the staccato pulse of his brother's spark close to his questing digits, and got a hissing snarl in his audios for his efforts. The spark twitched further away, and Sideswipe whined involuntarily.

:Sunny…: He called, but got only a vague feeling of protective, murderous intent in response. :Sunstreaker, we have to get you to a medic.:

That gleaned a sullen tick of acknowledgement; no medic equaled no protection equaled no Sideswipe. Easy enough for Sunstreaker to compute even half-deactivated.

The two slunk down the corridor, avoiding doorways and sticking close to shadowy corners. Red lights flashed dully into existence overhead, and a distant klaxon blared to life. The twins froze, identical expressions of fear, manifested in blatant aggression, twisting over their faceplates in the brief span of darkness between flashes. Optics snapped online, yellow-gold slits of animal instinct, and the two bots slipped silently into defensive positions, one in the rafters, one as bait below.

A slit in the wall to their left blossomed open, and white light shattered into the passage, ricocheting in jagged slashes over metal surfaces. It flashed gold near the floor, and weapons hummed online as the new mechs took up their own defensive positions…all save one.

The shock of the intruder's size was what stayed Sideswipe's hand. The mech did not move with any astonishing agility, nor did was he particularly efficient in checking his surroundings for enemies. His step was heavy, but this was a necessity since it was bearing the weight of that massive silver frame.

Scarlet optics narrowed into glistening slits of cold, unreadable intelligence as Lord Megatron took the hall. He did not need to look in Sideswipe's direction for the twin to know he had been spotted, nor did the Lord of the Decepticons openly aim his weapon to signal 'surrender or death'. All he had to do was enter the confined space of the corridor and stand there, sharp plating glinting in the light, a massive, scarred form, war incarnate in a mortal body, and he had won. His show of force was in his presence - in the hefty fusion cannon on his right arm - and it was enough.

Sideswipe slipped from the ceiling to the floor with a metallic clatter, levering and creeping his way on all fours to his twin's side. Either they would be spared together or die together; their would be no battle. Not that he wouldn't try…

But the heavy gaze on his helm weighed down that determination, and Sideswipe lay down next to his twin with a sigh, curling in a gentle spoon around the weak golden frame.

"Who are you?" Megatron's voice did not roll or thunder; it waited, wrapped in blank, rasping inquiry, empty of emotion. It was a carefully modulated tone, with simple words that any Cybertronian could understand, no matter his origin.

Sideswipe answered honestly, his surprise at the initiated conversation immediately overwhelmed with the hope that they would be allowed a medic. "Sideswipe."

"Sideswipe of where, and who is he?" A battered claw as thick as Sideswipe's wrist-joint indicated Sunstreaker's now shivering body.

"Sideswipe of nowhere, and Sunstreaker, my twin. I'll tell you more if you get a medic."

"Your twin." Disbelief, and anger now that honesty from the red twin was assured. "A medic is on his way as we speak." Sideswipe waited for argument, for deals and terms of service, but the larger mech only held himself motionless above their much smaller forms, red optics blazing. Behind him in the bright doorway, shadowy shapes of other mechs stood at attention, but their weapons had been lowered.

Sideswipe turned his attention away from the deadly being not two servo-lengths from him, and focused instead on the aching, fast-fading consciousness of his other half. Sunstreaker was falling into stasis, and his systems were growing steadily colder as the throbs of his spark became more erratic; as he began to show signs of deactivation and spark breech. Their casings had been hastily repaired, and Sideswipe honestly didn't know why he wasn't in the same boat with his twin; a twitching mess of exposed spark energy and leaking internals on the floor. He only knew that he wasn't.

Careful not to jar his brother, the red twin curled even closer against Sunstreaker's ravaged plating, sending warmth seeping into the icy insides, and black digits found twitching golden servos, enclosing them in a hot clasp.

Megatron was still watching; Sideswipe could hear the humming murmur of the gladiator's frame creep closer. But at the moment the red twin couldn't do anything about it, so he didn't care.

At the Ark…

"Prime…" His comm went off. Optimus jerked online, processors whirring and clicking into place. Weapons? Check Mask? Check. Bumblebee? Check-

Wait, what? "Prime!" His comm link fizzled to life again, static lacing the rough snarl that ripped into his audios. The Prime blinked, still in a confused haze, staring at the bundle of silver plating nestled between his chest plates…which were open. His spark tickled the sparkling's grey frame, reaching beyond his casing to caress Bumblebee's helm and chassis. Optimus felt his systems heating up, a consequence of having his chassis split and his spark revealed to the open air. He swallowed, laying his helm back and taking a few calming ventilations before addressing the urgent ping for communication.

He tried to make his vocals sound calm, collected, fully awake, and unbothered by the awkward state of affairs he had found himself in. "This is Optimus Prime speaking."

"…Right." It was Megatron. Frag. "Decided to reveal to the world you're actually a femme, or did some hero of a bot kick you in the ball bearings?"

"Niether." Optimus felt his face-plates heat up. "Bumblebee got my chest-plates open. He likes sparks."

"Didn't take you for a pedophile." was the instant, flat response. Optimus rolled his optics, still blushing furiously and very glad the other wasn't there to see it.

"Shut up, Megatron." He mumbled, disengaging his face-mask and running large blue servos over his visage. "What do you want?"

"There's something you should see."

"Where?"

"Here." No sass, no sarcastic "Where do you think, idiot?". Optimus carefully navigated the darkness of his quarters, scooped up the slumbering sparkling from his chassis, and laid the tiny form out on the heated surface of his berth. There was no reaction, though Bumblebee's snores increased in volume. The Prime returned his attention to his one-time nemesis.

"When?" Not why. Suspicion of any serious nature was all but dead between them, forcibly squashed and replaced with manufactured trust. It had to be so, in the beginning; their planet could not survive if they did not begin to work together. Now, it was just a result of a friendship Optimus had never expected and now would not allow to fade.

"Now." Trust or no trust, Megatron sounded relieved that Optimus was considering coming at all.

"I'll be there." The Prime assured. "I'll bring Prowl with me." And leave the rest with Bumblebee, was the unspoken implication.

"Excellent." Somehow, Optimus believed the warlord was referring to more than his imminent arrival.

At the Decepticon Base…

The shuttle doors opened with a pneumatic hiss, steam clouds billowing in pleasant gusts of wet warmth against his plating. Optimus descended the silver walkway, an immediately caught sight of his escort. Among the Decepticons milling about, performing various tasks and clearing space in the hangar bay for the incoming Autobot troops, one stood tall and proud, wings spread, scarlet optics narrowed in a haughty expression that somehow conveyed more warmth and welcome than any smile from the bot could have.

Starscream approached, heeled pedes clacking against the metal flooring, slim blue digits lifted in a simple, blunt greeting. The seeker wasn't one for formality unless it could get him something that direct conversation and cleverness couldn't.

"Prime." His rasping vocalizer bit out in their direction, sharp dentas shredding the syllables so that they emerged from his mouth misshapen and oddly accented. It was common with Vosians; their dialect, among all others, was the least suited to translation of any kind. "This way."

Optimus nodded, trying not to stare at the glossy white wings spread behind the seeker's back, or the way his sleek build bent elegantly at the joints with every step. Seekers were a beautiful race, stunning when well-shined, as it were, but Optimus had always been surprised by the fact that their appearance was far outshone by their prowess in battle… and their eagerness to enter into it. He did not want to offer any opportunity for offense, peace or no, lone seeker or not.

They left the hangar bay side by side, accompanied by no others; Prowl remained with the shuttle, along with a Decepticon officer named Shortstrip. She had pulled the Praxian Second in Command aside immediately to discuss the docking and managing of the foreign Ioconian vessel, obviously distressed to find such a "needy craft", as she put it, in her hangar. Apparently Decepticon vessels were more easily handled and shunted into dock than Autobot ones.

Optimus kept his lip-plates clamped shut behind the security of his battle-mask as he walked, attempting to gauge his escort's mood. Starscream was known to be emotionally flighty; his humors changed quickly and drastically, sometimes resulting in massive misunderstandings that led to crippling headaches. The seeker appeared unusually content at the moment. His optics were half-lidded casually, their dull sheen a sign of relative inactivity. Battle protocols were a token sign of escort; the null rays by the Air Commander's sides were barely on their lowest setting. But there was flicking that told the lie to this carefree facade; a twitch in a wing, a digit flexing spasmodically; Starscream was feeling anything but casual.

For a moment, Optimus was worried. Then he remembered sky-blue digits cradling liquid light, tendrils of brilliant gold licking over clawed servos, and he knew what Starscream was about to ask.

"How is he?" The seeker rasped.

Optimus did not let his chagrin show - he had almost (well, entirely, really) thought there was something sinister to Starscream's twitches, but of course the one time he was prepared for betrayal from the seeker was the one time Starscream had purely honorable - and somewhat endearing - intentions. The Prime knew he wanted more than a technical update; otherwise he would've asked someone else. Protective as he was, Optimus could not deny Bumblebee's savior the gift of knowing him rather than researching him - it was, after all, Starscream's right.

With a sigh, the Prime answered. "He likes sparks."

Starscream was silent; Optimus could tell he had the seeker's full attention though the bot feigned only quiet interest.

He continued. "I had to pry him out of my chassis before my departure; my sparkmate-"

"Elita One?" Starscream interjected.

"Yes." Optimus affirmed. "She claims the sparkling has more contact with my - er - intimate areas than she." It was a good tactic that had served him in the past; one that often succeeded in lightening the diplomatic mood. Burning faceplates was an adequate price to pay to see the delighted smirk that lit up the seeker's usually sour features.

"Does she really? That sparkling must hardly ever leave your side."

Optimus cast a half-hearted glare over at the now guffawing seeker, cheeks burning beneath his mask. "Thank you for the commentary, Starscream." He ground out, but the seeker only flapped a limp servo at him dismissively. The mood had been set, and the awkwardness of the last few kliks was fast fading.

"Oh come now you big sparkling, don't be sour." The seeker snickered. "Think of it as preparation for vorns of ribbing to come, now that our factions are 'fully integrated'." There was a definite inflection on the last two words; disdain, though Optimus could not see the reasoning behind it.

Deciding to wonder about the scorn later, the Prime continued the conversation. "Don't remind me." He groaned. "I can't imagine living day to day in the same living space as Megatron."

"Thank Primus you won't have to."

"What do you think I do every moment after recharge?" Optimus joked, grateful the seeker couldn't see the hidden grin that was responsible for the crinkling beneath his optics.

"Thank Primus I don't look like that oaf. It's the only thing that could be worse than living with him."

They both laughed loudly; Optimus' deep base chuckles rumbling through the metal surrounding them, Starscream's high rasp shaving his vocalizer to pinpricks of wiring. Insulting Megatron was something they were both accustomed to. The Prime felt they were both being incredibly immature for the sake of interfaction relations, but at this point it there was no one to see, so it didn't matter. Not to him, anyway.

The walls of the Decepticon Headquarters oozed by on either side, grey and blank, scrubbed roughly so that the glowing fluorescent strips above barely gleamed in their surface. Ahead of them, a lift materialized out of a similarly blank wall; circular doors irised open, and they stepped - heavily, in Optimus' case - onto the thick platform.

"He's not speaking."

Starscream's frame stiffening was audible. "What?"

Optimus sighed, feeling guilty for speaking and not knowing why. He had to tell Starscream, before the seeker learned by less savory methods that would pit his ire against the Autobots. "Bumblebee. His vocalizer will not function. Ratchet believes it is a side effect of the injuries he sustained during the cycle of his birth."

The seeker's words were slightly cold. "Is there anything to be done?"

Optimus had been planning to wait until the opportune time, following Prowl's advice, but it was now or never. "We were hoping you could tell us."

"You have Perceptor, Ratchet, and fragging Wheeljack at your disposal." The Seeker's tone was cold, dripping acid. The curse was unexpected, as was the vehemence behind it. Optimus shifted warily, careful not to activate battle protocols. It was so strange, how the moment had shifted from camaraderie to bitter dislike in mere astroseconds. "Why would you require my assistance?"

"You took his initial scans."

"Your junior medic did that, Prime." The mech denied.

"You took his initial scans."

"I was the second to touch him, if you recall." The bitterness was tangible; it stung against Optimus plating.

The Prime did not back down. He reared to his full height, every movement slow and as non-threatening as he could make it, while still conveying the solid truth the Decepticon needed to hear. Cobalt optics narrowed, servos clenching at his sides, Optimus spoke. "You were there at his birth. First Aid may have carried the spark, but you were the first to see him. Ratchet believes you have knowledge that could help. He has no other theories."

There was silence. The lift hummed as it rose swiftly through empty air, propelled upward at speeds they could not judge while inside of it. Lights on the wall flickered as their indicated location rose with them. Then rough vocals gritted out six syllables into the still, tense air.

"The damage is minor."

Optimus froze. Starscream's dark features were angled away; there was a scarlet glow to indicate his optics were online, but the Prime could not tell what the mech's expression was.

"…You will not assist in this…'minor' repair?" The damage is minor.

"I will not." The damage is minor. There had been such concern on the seeker's part. Why now was there such cold, callous disregard? Optimus barely noticed a slight jerk as the lift brushed past a rough patch in the shaft; barely saw the flicker as the lights around him spasmed of and on.

He turned aside so that the seeker would not, in some slight manner even, realize his words had incited shock, confusion…and anger. "What can be so important about the circumstances of his creation that you will ignore-?" He asked quietly, steadying the beat of his systems and carefully modulating his emotions. He cared too much for the sparkling, he realized. Acting diplomatic was almost second nature to a Prime; it should not be this difficult to refrain from physically attacking the seeker not two servos'-length from him, even though the subject matter was rather…personal. He would have to distance himself, in the future.

Starscream's next words made him question the possibility of that future containing Starscream in it. "Better he learn to deal with his defects at a time when he can assume them to be normal."

"You could heal-!" The Prime began to growl, anger roiling in his tanks, flashes of a silver face filled with joy jolting through his processor.

"Enough, Prime!" Starscream whirled on him, optics narrowed into blazing slits, claws unsheathed, dentas bared in a snarl. The seeker's wings snapped open with a whoosh, scrapping harshly against Optimus' plating as they arched. The dark lips moved in sharp, ragged motions, glossa flicking out like a black, glittering knife. "Shut your do-gooding mouth." The dirty scent of charging weaponry stung the Prime's sensors.

They both blinked, and turned quietly away - almost at the same time, Optimus thought.

Habitual diplomacy saved the Prime from making any major blunders during the duration of their time in the lift.

He would have thought it impossible, but when the doors irised open, all thoughts of Bumblebee and Starscream's refused assistance were wiped clean from Optimus' mind. Instead, weapons flared to life, servos clanking out of sight, replaced by humming blasters - blue digits pressed over the lips of the weapons, and Starscream rammed his entire body along Optimus' plating; unless he wanted to twine their bodies even closer, gears and plating edges catching, he couldn't move forward.

The screams, he realized, were angry - not terrified. His protective protocols simmered, and the Prime himself was far from placated, but he could distinguish the fury in the cries emanating from the cells before him. Enemies, not victims. He had been so close to assuming the worst of his allies…yet again.

Before him, Megatron stood. The Decepticon was a head taller than he, scarred and silver, glittering in the dim lighting of the Decepticon's new brig. Scarlet optics watched his movements quietly; Megatron had taken to assessing Optimus every chance the Con got. Optimus couldn't tell what he was looking for, but it appeared that, as with every other time, he found it.

A wide, sharp smile split the pale lips apart, and red optics crinkled with humor.

"Now, now, Prime," The gravelly voice rang like a blaster shot in the confined quarters. Optimus wondered briefly and unseriously if having glitched vocals was a prerequisite of being a Decepticon officer. A sort of bleeting snort from his left caught his attention, and he turned to see the dark blue and pearly white sheen of Soundwave's plating studiously bent over the control panel of the nearest cell, shoulders almost too still. Immediately clamping down his processors (a habit one got into when the Decepticon telepath was around) Optimus turned his attention back to Megatron.

The warlord's fanged smile ticked into a smirk under his appraisal, and he pushed away from his languid position propped against the wall. "Let us show you what you came here for." The Decepticon leader murmured mysteriously, and gestured to the cells. Optimus nodded, and turned to look.

Before him, two figures prowled and sprawled in their respective cells. Yellow optics glared at him with a fury no neutral was stupid enough to exhibit. Plating rattled in an instinctive, almost childish show of aggression.

"Primus…" Optimus breathed.

"Not quite, Prime. Not quite."

Author's note: Well, there it is. I'm still not quite satisfied with it, but some things you just can't fix perfectly. :p Yay! Got to meet Megatron and the twins! I still love Scalpel, and Shockwave is similarly amusing to me, if you can't tell. Poor Hook is always getting the short end of the stick. I hope you all liked it. Please review! I need more... T-T