Author's Note: Wow! I've got another chapter and it hasn't even been a week yet! :D Granted, this one is mostly fun or interesting scenes that need to occur before things start getting a little more intense. I'm still setting up for something, and I'm sure that once you see what it was, you'll understand why it's taken so long to prepare for.

Oh my gosh! I have quite a few people to thank this time around.

First of all, I want to thank those who reviewed the last chapter:

PrimalScreamer

I'm not sure if they would like to remain anonymous or not, so I'll just thank the Seven peoplewho have decided to follow this story. You know who you are... ;)

Lastly, I'd like to thank the Three people who have favorited (yes, it's not a word, but oh well) this story. Again, I won't say your names in case you'd rather I didn't.

To all of you, as well as to those who have reviewed in the past, thank you so much! You're the reason I've been able to keep this up for as long as I have, and I'm really glad that you've enjoyed it.

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

Chapter Eight

"If I am to die, may it be for the sake of those who will benefit from my sacrifice. Let me die on a battlefield, battered down in the act of defending what is right and innocent in this world. If I have life within me and wings upon my back, do not let me falter. Let me fight until the end, and die without remembrance. I am a soiled tool of virtue, desperate for redemption." -Thundercracker

"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

At the Ark...

Bumblebee was afraid.

Little digits trembled, rattling with the strength of the sparkling's fear; wide, aqua optics glowed brightly from the shadows of a brig cell. Outside the locked cell, planted firmly in front of the control console that was the only requirement for entry into the sparkling's hideout, Gears stood guard, trying stoically to ignore the sparkling's pitiful display.

Gears was a minibot; small, old, and worn. His paint was a dingy green and grey swirl over aged, scarred plating, and his servos shook as blunt digits curled around the hard shell of his blaster rifle. Gears was old, but he would be damned to the pit if he allowed any of Cliffjumper's mob to finish their leader's work, begun all those years ago on the night of Bumblebee's birth. Rusted joints were forgotten; Gears was ready to die if it meant the little ball of Adorable in the cell behind him would survive.

Judging by the heavy impacts and explosions outside the brig doors, death was a distinct possibility. It meant they had been discovered, and the enemy wanted in.

On either side of him, the hallway stretched into blackness. The brig was designed as a long, thin chamber that descended down two levels; a path lined on both sides by heavily fortified cells that, just as they prevented a mech from escaping their sizzling forcefields, also served well when jerry-rigged into a defensive position. One just had to have a guard on the outside, to stop anything from keying in the release codes.

At the mouth of the corridor, heavy double doors gleamed in the dim lighting, barely shivering under the barrage of explosions and gunfire that assaulted them. The doors were meant to protect the rest of the Ark from any escaped prisoners, and had been personally manufactured by Wheeljack himself. They had once been used as his blast doors for his lab, but had been repurposed as brig doors once Wheeljack had managed to create a more efficient set to replace them. In short, Gears didn't think anything short of in-space weaponry systems, most often found on the sides of battle cruisers, was going to get through those doors. Hackers, though, weren't uncommon; if the enemy used their processors instead of their fire-power, Gears - and Bumblebee - were as good as dead.

A mournful warble sounded from the cell behind him. Gears pried his dim optics from the trembling double doors, and gave the runty sparkling a grunt of inquiry.

Just as little lip-plates opened to click another complaint, the ventilation duct at the other end of the brig fell to the floor with a thunderous clatter.

Bumblebee gave a terrified series of bleeps; Gears was already whirling, joints grinding painfully together, making his movements jerky and stuttered.

A blue visor glowed cheerily up at them from the deep end of the corridor, and First Aid's small smile shined out of the darkness.

"I thought you could use some help." The junior medic croaked, dust and cobwebs - a parting gift from Earth - clogging his vents.

The mech had sprawled in a graceless heap after knocking out the vent cover; his red and white form was a twisted mess of limbs sticking out at odd angles, but apparently nothing had been broken. Gears snorted, raising his fire-arm so that it wasn't leveled at his fellow Autobot.

"Kid, I nearly shot you a new aft-hole."

First Aid laughed nervously, rolling painfully to his knees and brushing the grime from his plating. "Well, I couldn't think of much else to do…"

Bright blue optics watched the exchange dubiously. Rising to his little silver pedes, the sparkling tiptoed until he was barely a digit's breadth from the crackling purple wall that was supposed to keep him safe. Narrowed optics eyed the newcomer with no little suspicion, raking up and down the adult frame with a look of careful evaluation that swiftly morphed into utter scorn, once it was discovered that the bot had no weaponry to speak of. The unfamiliar, weaponless, and somewhat piddlingly sized mech committed his final sin in the sparkling's book when he ignored Bumblebee - and his scrutiny - entirely, focusing instead on a no doubt incredibly boring conversation with Gears.

Now thoroughly convinced of the bot's irredeemable character, Bumblebee huffed back to the far wall of his cell. A little aft plopped onto the cold metal floor, popping immediately (and with no little enthusiasm) back up once the temperature was properly noted. The next klik was spent trying to discern if the adults had witnessed the less than dignified mistake.

Once it was determined that they had not, a sullen huff was resumed, and Bumblebee did his best to portray three things: his disgust at the newcomer (directed at any or all of the mech's attributes), hurt feelings caused by both adults' lack of attention directed to the resident sparkling in their midst, and indignation at the unprecedented temperature of his intended seating.

Seeing as neither Gears nor the mysterious "First Aid" were paying attention, all three portrayals went without an audience, and were soon abandoned in favor of the incredibly interesting task of picking at a long, barely visible scratch along the sparkling's left forearm. Hygiene must be maintained after all, and Ratchet would be very displeased if the medic discovered he had let such a mar on his finish go unnoticed. What scratching at it was meant to accomplish hadn't been decided on yet, but it was interesting enough that Bumblebee felt he could make the effort to come up with some reason.

Something slammed against the forcefield right in front of him, sizzling as the object's weight ground it into the burning purple surface. Bumblebee started violently, scrambling backwards instinctively and gaping in horror at Gear's faceplates; at the silver features contorted in pain and shock, bubbling as Bumblebee's protection ate away at cheeks, lips, and optics.

The sparkling couldn't look away. He watched, terrified, as metal dripped, stained a dingy green and grey by melted paint mixed in. Blue optics flickered and died, their light and inner workings revealed as glass shattered and sputtered, trickling down a liquified jaw and into thick neck wiring. Gears' vocalizer sputtered a last rasping, distorted groan filled with an agony that could not be related through weakening systems. His spark, ripped open to the air before he had been rammed against the forcefield, guttered…and died.

The dripping, sizzling frame fell to the floor, released by its attacker now that Gears was deactivated.

Behind the body, eyeing the corpse with an amber visor filled with disdain, First Aid stood, a harbinger of death.

Bumblebee scrambled forward, heedless of the menacing junior medic, a ragged warble laden with static guttering from his vocalizer.

"G…! Geh…!" The sparkling's little silver lips choked out, his voice rough and distorted. Shaking digits came just shy of the forcefield, reaching out. Then Bumblebee's optics focused on the sizzling purple shield still speckled with Gears' remains, and the sparkling flung himself back with a bleating cry of horror. Harsh sobs racked the tiny frame, and coolant tears poured in thick rivulets down rounded silver cheeks.

A red and white frame bent down in front of the shield, knees bent, wrists laying loosely on the bot's thighs, so that red servos dangled freely between them. The amber visor flickered, and the frame's coloring soured from red and white into a messy, artistic representation of space. Little white dots surrounded by faint glows spattered the frame as stars; swirls of glittering greens and purples formed galaxies, curling around brilliant swathes of midnight blue. The amber visor remained, but the frame itself changed; shoulders broadened and the mech's body slendered, jagged armor plating replacing First Aid's rounded edges.

Black faceplates, handsome and sleek, quirked as a smirk contorted dark lips. "There, there, sparkling." A whispery voice, high and sibilant, filtered through the cell's speakers. "I'm not here to hurt you." Shadow-like claws caressed the cell's control panel, and Bumblebee scrabbled further back into the cell, optics bright with fear, mouth gaping wide. Tears trickled faster down stained silver faceplates, and the sparkling wailed, the sound ragged and ripped by terror.

The mech who had impersonated First Aid ignored his cries, punching in the release button on the control panel. The amber visor glowed more brightly than ever before. "You're the payment Ionicon needs, to satisfy those Coalition dogs of war…"

The purple shields lowered with a last powerful thrum-

-and Bumblebee bolted, little pedes screeching and throwing up sparks against the metal floor.

Behind him, the strange mech cursed, his heavier strides shaking the floor as he gave chase.

Outside of Praxus…finally…

Thundercracker roared in pain and rage as another plasma bolt ripped into his right wing.

To his left, Skywarp's damaged vocalizer wailed aloud, a blast of fear and static. "T.C!"

Starscream only gave an unearthly howl, ducking out from behind their cover and letting loose a furious barrage of null-ray fire.

Blackjack, as Skywarp had termed their adversary, gave an uncharacteristically high-pitched yelp as a stray blast hit home, directly between his thighs. The ashen-colored mech fell back onto his aft, scrambling awkwardly behind cover of his own. His curses were foul, and though Thundercracker almost sympathized, he couldn't stop himself from taking great pleasure in their enemy's pain.

But when Starscream buckled, optics flickering and servos clenched rigidly on empty air, he felt nothing but panic.

"Starscream!" He, Skywarp - he didn't know who yelled the name. He always had an odd taste on his glossa when he spoke it, as though he were tasting something ancient. He didn't taste anything but his own energon as he bit down on his own glossa in shock, so he probably hadn't said anything.

Starscream's frame was bucking as though the seeker were being riddled with blaster fire. He was writhing violently along the ground, the terrain caking his limbs and wings with rust. Thundercracker had moved before the thought; white plating was under his digits as he fought to still his trine-mate.

"Skywarp!" He yelled, but realized he didn't know what he wanted the other to do. Skywarp was too weak to do anything but hobble his way to them. The purple flier collapsed onto his knees on Starscream's other side, red optics wide and dazed-looking.

Starscream's vocalizer sent a hum through Thundercracker's digits; the blue seeker whipped around to look into scarlet optics - only to stare when he saw the strangeness in them.

Starscream's gaze was cold and cruel, calculating and cataloguing everything about Thundercracker's battered frame. Even as the dark lips sputtered and gasped, those optics remained carefully calm, the lack of recognition in them cutting into Thundercracker's spark.

But…he said he would be the one to disengage the programming…Thundercracker felt as though he had just stepped off a cliff into open air, with his wings and turbines sawed off. He remembered the words clearly:

"The lies. Your act; it's a program, you told me. So, what will happen when your fabricated character is dissolved?" His own words, referring to a mega-vorns old conversation.

"I return to my original personality."

Starscream had lied. The program was failing without the fictitious Air Commander's intervention. The "original personality" was waking up, regaining dominance, after a million years of slumbering through war.

It was something Thundercracker logically understood. He could think the words; understand them even. But now, in the face of the reality, he refused to believe them. He hadn't had enough warning. It was too soon.

"Starscream…!" He hadn't felt his body make the decision to speak, and the voice that came from his vocalizer was so raw, so desperate, that at first he didn't recognize it as his. He wanted the friendship he had worked so hard to forge; the familiarity of the Starscream he had known from his first hours as a Decepticon. He wanted his commander to stay, and he didn't care that that person was a lie anymore. A lie was easier to accept than the fact that the Starscream he knew would soon be gone forever, and what was left in its place would be - though real - more foreign than the Earthen plains of Africa. "Starscream!" He shrieked, his voice higher than it had ever been. He sounded like Skywarp.

Dark lips parted beneath his gaze, and the icy distance in the scarlet gaze remained. "Who are you?"

It was Starscream's voice. It was Starscream's face. It was, in the most honest sense, Starscream. But Thundercracker knew in that moment that the mech he had known and admired for over a million years was dead.

He stared into the face of the stranger in his arms, barely hearing Skywarp's faint "T.C? What's going on?"

Thundercracker released his now still and somewhat wary burden, and collapsed into himself. He curled inward, wings folding around his back, servos clawing Skywarp's weakened frame into his embrace.

He didn't notice the severe lack of Blackjack in their vicinity. He didn't dare to look into the surprised, vaguely intrigued stare that the new Starscream was casting in his direction. He shook silently, and fought to contain his grief.

It wasn't fair. In less than a human minute, without any warning or farewell of any kind, the mech he knew had died.

At the Ark...

The negotiations - if that was what they called them - had been going on for ten kliks straight. Ironhide revved his engine angrily, glaring daggers at the collection of amber-eyed freaks behind the mech who called himself Ionicon. They were all lithe, sharp-edged bots; two pairs and one loner. The loner was quiet, taller than the others; broad and threatening, equipped with few weapons but obviously capable of handling himself. Ironhide had traded a few blows with the bastard, and found that he had not enjoyed the encounter. Neither had his near silent enemy, once he got an up-close introduction to Ironhide's meticulously kept, well-stocked cannons. They had parted ways with an unspoken agreement to avoid one another in the future, though Ironhide hardly intended to keep his end of the deal.

As far as he could figure it, the amber-eyed group were neutral citizens gone bad. Their names were unfamiliar, and their builds were too unusual not to have been noticed by somebot, so they must have been hiding somewhere for quite a while before deciding to come out into the open. They wanted to find a pair of twins, and had thought - for some bizarre reason - that they would run across them in the Ark. As far as the Coalition was concerned, Ionicon claimed he'd brought them as back-up. Ironhide called Bullshit. The Coalition was quick to assert that they weren't leaving without Bumblebee, and at that, the Autobot forces had bristled. In poker terms, the Decepticon forces had seen the Autobot's bristle, and raised it a mass weapons cock. The Coalition remnant shifted like restless deer between Decepticon blaster sights, but held their ground.

Ionicon had stepped between both sides, claiming that all could be resolved peacefully.

Optimus had agreed, and then graciously indicated the exit to help his "guests" along. Ironhide loved it when the Prime did that. Wasn't often one could find a mech who could be respectfully diplomatic and sassy at the same time. Ironhide hadn't given much respect to politics at all until he'd met Optimus.

They were at an impasse.

Ionicon wouldn't leave without his twins, and he wanted the everybot from Optimus to the Coalition to help him get them. The Coalition refused to help unless they got Bumblebee. Optimus refused to help period, and refused to let them have Bumblebee. Added to that, the ruined rec room and moans of the wounded were grating on Autobot and Decepticon patience. Tensions were mounting.

And then, the worst mech to handle such a situation strolled through the rec room doors, which were flapping weakly back and forth, blocked from closing by a severely burned, Autobot-sized sofa.

Megatron hadn't changed much since the end of the war, which had been the last time Ironhide had seen him. Tall, well-framed, and more scarred than a blade shoved between helicopter rotors, the Decepticon lord radiated scorn like Earth cows radiated the smell of manure. Prowl, who stood to Ironhide's direct left, had a single servo planted firmly beneath his chevron, and was shaking his head in despair. Ironhide didn't know much about politics, but he could tell the sight of Megatron was bound to make the Decepticon-hating Coalition/Cliffjumper fanbots go just about ballistic.

Ironhide readjusted his cannons, not entirely unhappy with the predicted outcome. He'd never liked the Coalition. They were upstart Autobot pretenders, claiming to idolize their martyr's beliefs - beliefs Ironhide found not only ridiculous, but repulsive.

Cliffjumper had held to the claim that peace was not a valid end to the war unless all Decepticons had died in its achievement. The bot didn't understand the concept of redemption. Ironhide had always known redemption was rare, but at least he acknowledged its existence. Cliffjumper had denied it and called it a fanciful notion. During the war, this hadn't been a concern. They needed hard-sparked bots to defend against the Decepticon elite, and Cliffjumper's unusual outlook on a bot's morality had ensured that he didn't hesitate when confronted by an enemy. Death was instant and nonnegotiable, in the red minibot's book.

And then, there had been that night. The confusing haze of betrayal and hope that had resulted from Bumblebee's birth. Where the little sparkling came from was a mystery; First Aid had claimed he didn't know, and Starscream had not allowed himself to be questioned on the matter. Cliffjumper was dead, so any hope the Autobots had at discovering Bumblebee origins were buried with him, in his grave.

Why Cliffjumper had demanded the sparkling be killed along with all the Decepticons, rather than allow Bumblebee to tie the factions together in peace, no bot knew. First Aid refused to speak about that night, and the Coalition simply held to the same principle; they didn't care about the reasoning behind it. They trusted Cliffjumper like some bots trusted Optimus; without question, as a physical and spiritual leader who had died for the sake of peace; of a world without Bumblebee and without Decepticons.

And here, in the rec room, the most Decepticonish Decepticon ever to walk Cybertron, the origin of the faction and its driving force, stood proudly before them. The symbol of everything the Coalition stood against.

Optimus and Ionicon wouldn't stand a chance, trying to control this confrontation.

It was going to be one hell of a fight.

At the Decepticon base...

Sideswipe watched as the large, one-opticked Decepticon scientist dragged the last of three unconscious seekers through the med-bay doors.

"I thought you said you wanted to take more tests on us." He remarked meaningfully, eyeing a second slack-jawed seeker's upside-down face where it flopped backwards over the edge of a medical berth. Sunstreaker was taking notes on the hues of violet in the flier's paintjob, making a few appreciative remarks on the paint's vivid iridescence.

"The wounded state of high priority Decepticon officers unfortunately takes precedence over further exploration of your sparks." The mech's deep, clear words were free from scorn. In fact, he sounded honestly disappointed in the dictations of priority; almost pouty, even, if he weren't too dignified for that sort of thing.

Sideswipe didn't like Shockwave. The mech didn't have a face, making his emotions and intentions impossible to read, and he'd spent far too much time performing tests on the twins to hold any place of affection in their sparks.

Sunstreaker couldn't make out much more than Sideswipe could. The mech was build heavily on the top, with large shoulders and a long, spiked helm. His optic took up the majority of the helm's front area, making him look distinctly alien. Most mechs had faces, or something to hide faces. Beneath the thick chassis was a waist so thin it was almost comical, and thighs that barely rounded to form a relatively flat aft. Sunstreaker was unimpressed by the mech's aesthetically standards already, and he hadn't even considered the pedes. Two gigantic pads swooped down from powerful calves, forming a sort of T-shaped pede at the end of either leg. The last note was that any mech so devoted to his cause that he would replace his arm with a cannon was unlikely to be susceptible to persuasion of any variety.

So bribery was definitely out, and Sideswipe doubted they could appeal to whatever this mech had in place of a sympathetic side. With their luck, he'd have replaced that with a grenade launcher.

As strange as it seemed, honesty might be the best manner of attack. "Well, if you don't let us go within the next solar cycle, the chances of this base being reduced to ashes go up into the one-hundred percents."

The single red optic turned onto him, glowing brightly. Sideswipe waited expectantly, feeling Sunstreaker's own anticipation throbbing in his spark.

"There are no one-hundred percents. There is only one 'one-hundred percent'." The broad purple shoulders rolled back as the mech turned away from his patient, and approached. Sideswipe's servos twitched nervously in the stasis cuffs that had been clapped on both he and his brother, watching the scientist's nearing frame warily.

Sunstreaker let out the lowest of growls as a purple claw jabbed into Sideswipe's personal space, hovering in front of his faceplates. The red twin crossed his optics as he tried to keep the digit in focus.

"Any further attempts to sabotage my medical attempts will be severely punished." Shockwave threatened, still in the same calm, almost conversational tone.

And then the scientist was moving away, thin hips swaying in time to each calm, measured step. Sideswipe let out the air he had been holding, hearing it hiss through his heated vents.

They watched in silence as Shockwave's enormous claws delicate pinched wires free, twining together processor threads and picking out fragile datachips from the blue seeker's helm.

:If he touches you again, I'm ripping his digits off, ramming them into his wrist joint, then feeding him the whole arm through his vocalizer.: Sunstreaker's fury was intoxicating, but Sideswipe was too worried about how they were going to get off the base to revel in the sensation.

:You're going to rip off a mech's arm just because he got a little close?: The red twin managed to joke, already frantically searching his processors for another method of escape. Shockwave had said the interrogators were alive, but had other business to attend to. In all likelihood, they wouldn't get any help from Optimus Prime or Megatron until it was too late.

:Who said I'd rip it off before feeding it to him?: Sunstreaker growled darkly. :And stop worrying. There's nothing we can do.:

:So I should stop trying to do anything, because it's hopeless? I wonder why I call you Sunshine, sometimes.: Sideswipe snapped back, irritated. Here he was, trying to save their lives, and Sunstreaker had suddenly decided to give up? What had happened to the unity they'd managed to solidify only breams ago?

Hurt and frustration roiled openly into the bond, startling the red twin with its intensity. :I'm saying you should save your energy for a real opportunity rather than try to make one, Sides.: The emotions quieted, hidden subtly behind a mental barrier. In their place, Sunstreaker's reasoning took precedence, forcing arguments for patience and persuasive reasons for inactivity. His brother's hatred of the "Sunshine" nickname had been smothered within the bond for the sake of making the golden twin's point; a quiet presentation of Sunstreaker's plan, and an even quieter request for trust. That garnered Sideswipe's attention, even if the use of his own nickname from Sunstreaker's mental lips would have snagged his notice anyway. It appeared that Sunstreaker held to the age old assertion that Overkill was Underrated. If he wanted attention, the golden twin would enact about five ways to get it…at once.

:Sooo.: Sideswipe said after a moment of shocked silence. In a way, Sunstreaker had just given him a gift; a look into his brother's thoughts on the matter rather than the bare content. For that, Sideswipe was willing to trust his twin's judgement. Sunstreaker so rarely asked for trust; when he did, it was nigh on impossible to deny him. Sideswipe grinned, paying no attention as Shockwave shot them a quizzical stare. :Wait for the triumphant return of our prisonkeepers before blowing this joint?:

Sunstreaker snorted through the bond, retreating back into his reserved shell now that he'd made his point, and garnered approval. :You give them too much credit…:

Author's Note: Well...there we are. Now you know a bit more about the Coalition, as well as Ionicon and his gang. Granted, Ironhide's description of the events leaves much to be desired, but we'll see things from a more realistic perspective next time...hopefully...if they aren't all dead by then... 3:)

Some of you might be wondering who on earth the shape-shifting mech is. I promise you will find out, and that he is not a convenient OC. Just my version of a pre-existing character.

Starscream's "death" is meant to be sudden and unexplained. If you're currently confused and wondering what the hell just happened, that's good. Even if you aren't and you've understood the situation as well as you can with the given information, that's fine. I know I say this a lot, but everything has a reason. At least, everything I've managed to think of...I may have missed a few plot-holes, and at the end you'll probably call me out on it and demand my head in recompense, but I've tried my best to make sure that won't happen.

Until next time!

Please review!