Author's note: Hello everyone! I haven't posted in...*cringes* more than a week...!

Sorry about that. I've been able to post pretty frequently up till now, but I'm afraid I'll have to cut back on fanfiction writing as the school year continues. I'm not sure exactly how often I'll be able to post, but I'll try to make it as often as possible without losing too much of the story's quality.

On another note, I'd like to thank those who reviewed, especially:

Starfire201

With that, on with the show!

Any mistakes are my fault; I have no beta.

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

Chapter Six

"There is a time when all hopes, dreams, and loves fail you; when desperation dictates your every action, undermines your beliefs. Everything you've ever believed to be worth your love are lies; illusions and deceptions that can no longer bear your weight. You find yourself without a single truth to stand on; alone in the night. You fall, defenseless, through the black. If you are very lucky, there is someone in the darkness to catch you." -Megatron

"Normal speech."

Inner personal thoughts.

"Comm chatter."

:Bond Speech:

Astrosecond: 2 seconds

Klik: approximately five minutes

Joor: half an hour

Breem: nearing one hour

Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle

Mega-cycle: one human day

Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day

Vorn: approximately two months

Orn: five years

Mega-vorn: nine years

Mega-orn: twenty years

Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet

In the Decepticon base…

The Ark was under attack.

Optimus Prime's lengthy strides carried him swiftly down the blank corridors of the Decepticon base; mechs who saw his approach flattened themselves against the walls, red optics glinting with curiosity and no little awe at the Prime's formidable frame and clenched servos. Behind him, Soundwave followed. The blue mech's steps were a fluid stalk, each pede coming down in a soft, clear clack against the metal floor.

Soundwave had changed, since the end of the war. During his service, he was possibly the most feared of the Decepticon command apart from Megatron. The silent communications officer had been Jazz's most capable adversary, singly responsible for thirty-seven percent of the Decepticons' victories, and assisting heavily in a more generous fifty-four percent. A masterful tactician as well as an invaluable counter intelligence officer (anti-spy, to the unitiated), Soundwave was seen as an emotionless machine; the most depraved of Decepticon command; since all of his crimes were acts of carefully controlled, calculated intelligence, rather than acts of violence driven by passion and the desire for freedom. Most bots killed without any real thought, and refused to consider the act afterward out of guilt. Soundwave killed to make a point, and as far as the Autobots were concerned, this method of warfare had contorted whatever bot Soundwave had been into the monstrosity he was during the war.

Even taking into account Megatron's own case, they had never judged a bot - or his actions - so wrongly.

But now wasn't the time to be considering past mistakes.

Looking back over his shoulder, Optimus called out to the telepath, trying to sound calmer than he actually was. "Can you have the ship running by the time we arrive in the docking bay?"

Immediately Soundwave's deep, rich vocals answered him in an affected monotone. "Craft: will be ready to depart upon arrival."

Optimus nodded, returning his gaze to the front in barely enough time to avoid squashing a cleaning drone, and stumbling back into his brisk pace once he'd passed the quivering machine. "Thank you." He blurted out to the communications officer, barely giving the words any thought. His men were under attack. His bots were probably dying, and he was here, in the Decepticon base-!

"The Prime: Should not feel guilty."

Startled, Optimus' step faltered. He danced gingerly around a passing seeker's wingspan as the bot scrambled to get out of his way, scarlet optics popping as wide as Optimus' were.

Soundwave pretended he hadn't seen any sort of indignity, and continued, his strides even clicks against the floor. "Prime: was saving lives here."

Optimus frowned, wondering at what point he'd saved any bot on the premises during his stay. Soundwave answered his unspoken question (the frequency with which he did so was unnerving). "Optimus Prime's presence at this facility: mended unstable interfaction relations. The Prime: forestalled hostilities between factions; is providing friendship to those who believe Autobot's have none to offer. This: has saved lives."

Slightly mollified, but knowing the likelihood of Soundwave mentioning this for any reason other than to build his confidence to be unlikely, Optimus gave the Con a nod. "Thank you."

"Lives of Autobot's: depend on the Prime's state of mind on arrival." Soundwave continued, disregarding Optimus' interruption. "If Prime is distracted by illusionary guilt, then death will result. The Prime: does not react well when assaulted by regrets."

Again, Optimus was surprised. It was brutal honesty, coming from a Con, but aside from that shocking anomaly, Soundwave had essentially expressed concern on both Optimus' and the Autobots' behalf. How strange this peace was becoming…

They reached the docking bay, where Prowl and the Autobot shuttle were waiting.

Mechs scurried past, mostly Decepticon in allegiance, but a few Autobots tossed him a half-hazard salute. "Prime!" They barked, and each time, Soundwave started visibly. Apparently, the Decepticons were not as used to his presence as the telepath had indicated. Or perhaps they were simply remembering a time when a shouted "Prime!" meant "Get your aft out of the line of fire".

"Sir." Prowl came to a stiff salute in front of him. "Craft is ready to depart."

The Autobot shuttle was small; a dirty white ship large enough to five mechs at most. The plating was anything but fashionable, but Autobots cared more for practicality than aesthetics - at least, they did when their names were Prowl and they had authority over all of the Ark's construction teams.

As he embarked, Optimus noticed several Decepticon crafts in the process of take-off. He watched as Soundwave made his way over to one, unfolding a sonic cannon the size of Megatron's arm from subspace, and leaping onto the ship's outer shell. The communications officer looked his way, and deliberately attached a hook and cable around his middle, cinching himself into place.

The cables were used in part for transportation of mechs who couldn't fit into the ship, but served the double purpose of allowing for a speedy drop into a battle-zone.

It seemed interfaction relations had improved. Enough that the Decepticons were coming to the Autobots' rescue.

Optimus turned back to the shadowed depths of his own craft, and smiled behind his battlemask. Warmth curled in his spark, and he knew that peace was finally within their grasp.

...If they could survive this night.

At the Ark, one hour earlier...

Daystar hated cramped spaces. He also hated the dark, as his designation implied. Furthermore, anything remotely resembling refuse or filth of any kind was to be destroyed immediately, and with prejudice, in his fantastically appropriate and correct opinion.

The ventilation duct in which he found himself was cramped, darker than the pit, and filled with rust particles, dust, and a strange assortment of alien webbing he just knew would never release its tenacious hold from his plating. In short, he was not a happy mech.

Eugh…He curled his lip, swiping a strand of sticky fibre from his knuckles. Purge-worthy...

Ahead of him, Nightstar's aft shifted back and forth. His superb vision allowed him to see every detail; joints folding, plating sliding, thighs, calves, and pedes moving sinuously as his twin used his stalking skills to his full potential. This sight too was purge-worthy, in Daystar's opinion. Whoever had designed his brother's aft was blind, senile, or born in an age where angles and sharp edges were all the rage.

In their bond, the cold blankness so characteristic of a Nightstart on the hunt flickered with slight annoyance.

:Stop looking, if it bothers you.: The pitch-black twin sent. It was strange. When he heard his own words in the bond, they very much resembled a voice; actual phrases linked together in a pleasant, deep tone (if he said so himself…). When his brother spoke, the received result was a voiceless feeling; thoughts conveyed without context or sound at all. Perfect access to his brother's thoughts, but only the ones he was allowed to see. Nightstar had long established himself as the dominant twin; an out of character move, if one couldn't see beyond his recalcitrance and into the quagmire of emotion within. They still fought about superiority occasionally, but the vague understanding was that it was mostly due to their difference in character.

His train of thought was brutally cut off by his brother, who quietly but forcibly drew his attention to the sounds of battle above them, in the Autobot rec room.

:Sire has begun the attack. Alert the others.:

Action. Good. Now they could leave this stupid duct and never return unless it was to smelt the primus-damned thing.

"Everyone!" He called out dramatically into his comm. None answered, but all were listening. "Begin the rescue! Find our missing two!"

"How does sire know they're here?" Jade. Of course. The femme was intolerable!

Daystar sighed heavily - into the comm, of course, so that all would know of his righteous exasperation. "Because, oh doubting one, this is where Creator said they would be."

"Creator is tricksy - he said we would find them if we searched here, not that they were here."

"The outcome is the same either way." Her own twin's sibilant rasp was a welcome intervention. Ebony had always been reasonable - at least, more so than his sister. "So shut up and do your job."

Jade's silence was warily submissive; she knew she was outgunned, especially since her own twin refused to side with her. Not that that was unusual. Jade and Ebony didn't get along. Not even to the extent that Daystar and Nightstar shared.

"Are we done?" Daystar couldn't help but prod. "Good. Then let's get to work. Axelond, call up those "Cliffjunker" goons or whatever they call themselves and say we have our part of the deal ready."

Axelond did not respond, but no one expected him too. He and Nightstar were similar in their silence, but there all similarities ended. At least, Daystar hoped so, for his own sake. Axelond had killed his twin.

But he was efficient, and irreplaceable, so he hadn't been punished by their sire or the Creator.

When they found Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, the runaways wouldn't be so lucky.

At the Ark, at the time of Optimus' departure from the Decepticon base…

Blaster fire hissed and sizzled through the air. Heat gushed in distorted clouds from burning walls and slagged cover, contorting like a storm of liquid glass against the shockingly orange ceiling. Screams and howls of rage were drowned out by the deafening roar of battle. Metal blades screeched and clashed against on another; the impact of mech against mech rang through the halls. The crash of falling bodies and the thunderous discharge of heavy weaponry thrummed through the air.

Jazz dodged, ducked, and sliced. In his servos, a pair of jagged shrapnel bits blurred and spattered drops of energon onto the orange walls. Mechs screamed; mechs with autobot sigils polished to a sinister, perverted shine. How Jazz hated Cliffjumper; first for assaulting the most innocent being they had seen in vorns, and then dying a hero's death before the minibot's beliefs could be disproven. Cliffjumper had many followers; not enough to be overly worrisome on their own. But they weren't alone in their assault, this time.

Orange optics flashed with glee to Jazz's left, and he dodged the larger mech's vicious swipe. Long, purple claws stabbed into the wall behind him, inches from his shoulder. Jazz knelt and swung his leg beneath his enemy, knocking sharply against knee-joints and sending the mech tumbling down.

They had come "out of left field", as the humans would say. Orange-eyed bastards with far too much experience to be neutrals and far too little emotion (discounting sadistic delight in the spilling of Autobot energon) to be of Cliffjumper's group. Their leader had initiated the battle, slipping past the Ark's defenses with suspicious ease, and engaging in a conversation with Mirage and Bumblebee, of all people, in the rec room. That's where it had started, but in a surprisingly short amount of time, the Cliffjumper mob had arrived, evening the odds. Distracted by the unexpected skill of the instigators, the Autobots hadn't had a prayer of warding off a second attack.

Now, they weren't fighting to retain their defenses or reclaim the Ark; they were fighting to survive.

Blaster had sent out word; Prime and Prowl would be arriving shortly. But seconds were precious, and Jazz knew he wasn't half the tactician Prowl was, and couldn't compare to Optimus' battle prowess or leadership. If those two didn't arrive soon, they were dead. All of them, including the tiny silver sparkling a wounded Gears had stolen away to the brig, where, hopefully, they would be safer.

Jazz gritted his denta, and made his next attack extra vicious. The bot's spark felt warm against his digits, and sizzled against the cool exterior of the grenade he left behind.

The saboteur danced around the horrified mech, slipping between two other enemy bodies, snatching an Autobot scruff bar and hauling the mech with him around a corner.

"Down!" Jazz yelled throughout all Autobot comms.

Mechs flung themselves to the ground just as his unfortunate victim exploded, sending shrapnel whizzing and hissing through the air, stabbing through the mechs that the fiery explosion hand't offlined.

Not wasting a moment, Jazz let his companion go, and spun back into the fray.

Hurry, Prowl…

Somewhere in Praxus...

"Go-go-go-go-go!"

Skywarp's undignified caterwaul was a welcome serenade to his audios. Thundercracker had to admit he had missed his trinemate's downright goofy antics - for the solar cycle that they had been separated, that was. He was such a sap. Between him and Starscream, Thundercracker felt as though drama would reign supreme. When Skywarp was involved, all drama was just a chance to kill the mood; endless opportunities to say something ridiculous that would make the two older seekers laugh.

And Thundercracker did laugh, even as blaster fire sizzled past his wings, biting into the wall of the Praxian bar behind him. Pelting down the closest thing Praxus had to a main street - a wide strip of flat, rusty terrain lined by what had once been Praxus' finest attractions - Thundercracker let his anxiety go. Skywarp was here - wounded, yes - but here. Starscream was the same as he had always been, not yet allowing his program of lies to be taken offline, screeching insults and profanities at their pursuer. Yes. Pursuer as in single.

The mech was disturbing. Long and short story put together to make the most blunt, honest assessment, he was a walking nightmare that laughed at the oddest moments, such as when Starscream had nailed him with a barrage of null-ray fire. He kept asking about twins, and Skywarp insisted he'd 'talked' about something; given away an important detail that involved Rumble and Frenzy…who were, oh so coincidently, twins.

Thundercracker wasn't too worried; he didn't understand why Skywarp was. The twins were protected by the most unflappable, competent, 'oh-shit-is-he-looking-at-me' mech that had ever graced the world with his terrifying presence. Soundwave had cost Swindle money when most bots elected the telepath as more frightening than Megatron. (It made sense the salesmech would stake his bet on the Decepticon leader, though, since he had been on the receiving end of Megatron's fusion cannon more often than any mech other than Starscream). The telepath was a legend among his comrades in arms, and a horror story among his enemies. He was the kind of mech femmes warned their sparkling about: "If you don't recharge, Soundwave will find you…" (Let the childhood trauma begin).

And Skywarp seemed to be under the impression that this same mech's twins were in any sort of danger. Either the seeker's processors were addled, or there was something Thundercracker didn't know.

"We can't lead him to them!" His trinemate wailed, gasping in pain as they ran. He was strung between them, their arms entwined around his battered waist. Together, they hobbled at a fair clip along the Praxus road, looking like some sort of deformed shuttlemech who had consumed a bit too much high grade.

Behind them, their enemy's lilting call rang out; an annoying, half-tune half-snarl. "You can't hide them, ravagers!" He'd called them that several times now. There was something in that, but for the life of him Thundercracker couldn't understand what. And now that Skywarp was back, he felt less than inclined to investigate, and more than a little inclined to celebrate.

But now was not the time.

Grinning from audial to audial, Thundercracker flipped his body skillfully around, switching his hold so that he still supported Skywarp, but faced backward as he ran. He raised his free arm, and fired his first missile.

Thundercracker was the last seeker to retain his Earthen vehicle form. He liked the angular slopes and bulky front of the jet shape; the large, explosive, and very un-cybertronian weapons that accompanied such a form were an added bonus.

Their pursuer, unused to Earth weaponry, Thundercracker was sure, seemed stumped by the large, dartlike shape speeding toward him, trailing smoke. He looked a bit perplexed, as though he wasn't entirely sure what was being fired at him was something he should dodge or not.

Definitely should have dodged.

At the Ark...

It was soft at first. A muffled sound, drowned out by the rage of battle; one that swiftly grew into a chant that shook the walls. Debris and shrapnel rattled on the ground; the Coalition - those who supported the fallen war-hero, Cliffjumper - paused in their advance, disbelief morphing into fear. The name rang through the Ark, roared from the vocalizers of third in command Jazz's motley forces, each cry impassioned, confident in an Autobot victory.

"Prime! Prime! Prime! Prime!…"

Smoke curled around Daystar's scratched and battered plating, weaving through his digits and tickling sensitive wiring beneath his armor. The Ark's rec room was a scene of carnage; Coalition troops and Autobot soldiers littered the ground. Each face was a stunning blow to both sides, but Daystar didn't know any of them.

In times of war, the most soldiers killed died in the beginning. Any who lasted after were probably skilled enough to last mega-vorns; they quickly knew their friends and enemies with an intimacy that only cybertronians could achieve, with lifespans of their length. Wars lasted centuries; mechs grew together, and when a friend - or an enemy - was deactivated, the loss was felt by both sides. The enemy realized it no longer had to plan for that soldier's specific talents, and the other faction knew it could not depend on his unique methods for support any longer.

Daystar hadn't been online long enough to have an emotional attachment to anything save Nightstar. He couldn't care less if any other member of his family was killed - save their sire. The day Ionicon was killed would be the day Daystar died, since the twin wouldn't allow anything less stop him from saving his sire.

Around him, the bodies of Coalition and Autobot troops alike were no more than empty frames with unfamiliar faces. But to the mech entering the rec room, they were family; and his vengeance was something to be wary of.

Daystar had heard of the great Prime. He had heard his sire's stories of the Decepticon revolution; felt the anger his sire had wanted him to feel at the tale of their endless battles. He had heard of the carnage; of the skillful killing of thousands of Cybertronians, and the idiotically immovable stance both factions had taken on their so-called principles. How any mech could be stupid enough to think freedom was worth the death of their race was beyond Daystar. How could freedom be so important that they would leave no mechs to enjoy it? Ridiculous.

But there stood one of the most intrinsic pieces to the formation of that war and those beliefs: Optimus Prime.

The mech walked like a titan. Each step was filled with meaning, as though the Prime knew each movement and meant for each twist of his joints to happen in precisely the manner in which they did. His helm and antennae all but brushed the ceiling supports, so massive was his frame. Blue optics the color of deep space and alive with the fire of a sun burned deeply into Daystar's gaze, locking him in place with some sort of telekinetic power. There was no other explanation for why his joints locked up; why his servos began shaking and why he could not look away.

Then from behind him, a dark, dirty claw slipped onto his shoulder, and Ionicon pushed him gently aside. His sire took the full force of the majestic Prime's gaze, and met it with his own.

Ionicon was not a large mech, nor was he impressive by normal standards. When Daystar had first seen him, only moments after his and his twin's birth, he hadn't quite known what to think.

Black plating, scuffed and worn beneath the seeker's many nights of tedious labor, gleamed dully beneath the flickering rec room lighting, as different from the Prime's glistening colors as day was from night. Tattered wings that had not seen flight for as long as Daystar could remember rose like mangled protrusions from the flier's back, undecorated and scarred with many sets of five-lined scores in the metal. Ionicon was lithe, heavily weighted on his pedes and forearms, and boasting a bold chassis that tapered into a pleasant enough waist. Daystar had fashioned his own frame off of his sire's out of admiration for the build, minus the bothersome wings.

Ionicon's optics, amber and dull, watched the Prime with no expression whatsoever. It was the mech's way, Daystar supposed. The mech wasn't old, but he sure looked it. When one knew what to look for, it was impossible to think of the seeker as aged in any way.

When the seeker began to speak, that knowledge was further solidified in Daystar's mind.

"You've come late, Optimus." The voice was sleek, if voices could be sleek. Dark and rich in a way voices had no right to be, but harsher than a globule of hardened metal grated against a blade.

The Prime looked slightly perplexed. "Do I know you?" Deep words that rumbled up Daystar's struts. The twin shivered.

Ionicon shook his ragged helm. "We have never met." He took a solid, slinking step forward. His pede scraped in a hiss against the floor. "It is not because of any past contact that I have come here. You can put your worries and your guilt at rest, Prime." Mockery, if the Prime could see it.

Apparently, he could, judging by the narrowed gaze. But the mech chose to ignore it. Fool couldn't even defend himself. "Why are you here?"

Ionicon made a motion that Daystar had come to associate with a shrug: a black wing fluttered and his head cocked till the narrow chin touched his shoulder pauldron. It looked a bit contorted, to Daystar. "I am here to fetch something of mine."

"And that is?"

"My twins."

The Prime visibly blanked, optics shuttering multiple times in confusion. "What?"

Ionicon's vocals descended from the icy to the truly glacier. "My twins. Their names are Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Have. you. seen. them?" As though he would tell the Autobot's their plan in its entirety.

Daystar snickered to himself. Stupid-afts.

"That cannot be all you have come for." Ooorrr maybe not.

"I have the support I need to rip this place apart; why would I need any other reason to do so?"

The Prime took a step forward, so that he and Ionicon were mere servo-lengths from one another. Behind him, the Autobot forces slipped into the rec room, facing off with the remaining Coalition soldiers that stood to Daystar's back. The Prime spoke again, and all listened carefully. "Because you know they are not here, and yet you stay, wasting resources in an attempt to destroy us."

Daystar started. Not here? The last of their number, gone? He cast a glance in Jade's direction. The femme looked resigned, angry, and yet smug at the same time. Creator always was tricksy…

Ionicon didn't seem as surprised by the news - at least, not that Daystar could tell. "Why waste energy chasing them down when I can force you to bring them to me?"

The Prime looked thoroughly disgusted. "And what could possibly motivate me to do as you say?"

"I have your ship, and by extension, your soldiers, at gunpoint. You would be sparkless to sacrifice them in order to keep a sire from his sparklings…"

Blue optics narrowed. "Sparklings?"

Ionicon's amber gaze burned, and thin lips split in a small smile. "Speaking metaphorically, of course."

"Of course." The deep vocals were heavily laden with suspicion.

Heavy pede-steps brought the assembly's attention to movement in the Autobot ranks. Mechs were shifting aside to allow a dark blue frame passage, every Autobot either shocked or wary at the sight of the newcomer.

Ionicon's stance stiffened, and Daystar could've sworn the Prime's optics crinkled with a smirk.

"Observation:" Droned a heavily affected monotone that sounded like a drone with a virus. "Interloper: is now the one outgunned."

The third in command of the Decepticon forces took his place beside the Prime, Red visor a sinister glow above an expressionless mask.

From Nightstar's side of the bond, Daystar could've sworn he heard a faint, alien word that sounded very much like: :Shit…:

In the Decepticon base…

"Hello? Hello?! Fraggit, is anyone there?"

Silence answered the comm. The Decepticon's control panel, used for all communications and usually run by Soundwave either manually or at a distance, was unattended. Starscream's screech ripped through the speaker system once more, laced with background sounds of warfare.

"Is there anyone? Primus damn you to the pit if you're ignoring me, Soundwave!"

Scarlet optics eyed the controls from the shadows. Megatron blinked slowly, listening to the sound of his second-in-command panicking over the comms the gladiator was currently refusing to answer.

"Shockwave? Hook?! Slaggit - Motormaster?! Any mech capable of rerouting this call or sending support, answer me!"

Megatron lifted a cube of medical grade energy to his lips, wincing at the bitter flavor.

"…Megatron…?"

Silver digits jerked, splicing medical grade down his scarred chassis. Blood-red optics speared the console with an intensity most mechs had come to fear, and few had come to hope to see directed at them.

The voice that came through was not Starscream's. Or rather, it was Starscream's, but not the seeker he knew. The one he had never met; the one that Starscream claimed was breaking free, loosening the holds of his character programs. He didn't know how he knew. As in many things that had been proven true and furthered his success, it was instinctive.

His digit was pressing down the comm before he could think better of it. "Starscream?" He rasped.

For a moment, there was no answer. Then the seeker's screechy vocals blasted at him, full of Starscream's characteristic sass and irritation.

"What the Pit, Megatron? I didn't ask for you! Get Soundwave on the line!"

The Deception lord's faceplates were cast into shadow, but his optics glowed with a bitter hate. "Unfortunately," He replied calmly. "Soundwave is occupied at the moment, as I will be, momentarily. What is it you require?"

"Fragging Shockwave, if there's no one else!"

"There isn't." He ended the call before Starscream could finish his last indignant screech.

For a few moments, the gladiator's shadowy bulk remained hunched over the control console.

And then the thing was hissing - sputtering around the blade that had been rammed to the hilt into its facade. Sparks spat onto pale, gleaming plating, and red optics glowed.

"Shockwave." Megatron commed the scientist.

The response was immediate. "Yes, Lord Megatron?"

"I need you to do me a favor…"

Author's Note: Another chapter up! :D This one was a bit of an odd one, considering all the things that needed to happen in order to set up for the next chapter...but I think it turned out okay. Any OOCness on Thundercracker's part was intentional and caused by his reuniting with Skywarp. That's my excuse, at least. ;) Poor Megatron! T-T He feels so betrayed, but doesn't want to admit that such a "small thing" could affect him so badly... Still, he needs to get his head out of his ass. He has some Autobots to save, and only one night to do it.

I do apologize for the excess of OC's and the extremely sudden appearance of Cliffjumper's supporters. I realized they were necessary for the battle after I had posted the last chapter, in which you were supposed to get a hint of their existence. They'll be further explained in later chapters, so don't worry about them going away or all being magically defeated by the combined Decepticon/Autobot forces next chapter. ;)

I hope to be able to post again soon. Thanks to those that have been following/reviewing/supporting this story! I'm actually a bit surprised it's survived this long; I had designed it in the beginning to be a test for style, plot development, etc. Now, I'm already planning a sequel, and we're not even half-way through the first one!

I couldn't have done it without my supporters, so here's to you!

On that note, please review some more! ^-^