Holy Jeebus I'm not dead! :D ( D: …?) A heaping big thank you! to all the reviewers, the followers, and the lurkers. It's okay guys, don't be shy; even just a 'please continue!' lets me know that people are still interested in this. You guys are the reason I'm writing.

Quote is from "Blinding," by Florence + the Machine. Chapter titles are from Dylan Thomas' poem "Dying of the Light."

This has been broken up into two parts, so you guys will actually get another update in a few days. Lucky you!

Secondhand Sparks
Chapter Five: Grave Men (Near Death)… Part One

Seems that I have been held in some dreaming state; a tourist in the waking world, never quite awake -

Mikaela wandered into the new medical bay cautiously, aware of Ratchet and Ironhide behind her but not really listening to their bickering. As soon as she stepped foot through the enormous double sliding doors, she stumbled to a halt. Ironhide had to pick her up by the scruff of her jacket and relocate her safely off to one side, with Ratchet reminding her that she really should know better by now. His scolding fell on deaf ears.

The place was massive, nearly the length of half a football field, and just as deep. Off to her right she saw the holographic display screen that took up most of the wall, along with the long control panel below it that monitored just about every piece of equipment in the room, as well as the vitals of patients. There was a small, Mikaela-sized set of stairs that led up to it, something that had been sorely lacking at their warehouse. She made a giddy noise and headed towards it.

There were two rows of bio-beds situated down the length of the room, eight in all. Mikaela wondered just how many injured Autobots Ratchet was planning on torturing, then immediately felt guilty. They'll come, she thought to herself firmly. Though she hoped that so many beds wouldn't be in use all at once.

The console, when she climbed up to it, consisted of so many dials and read-outs that she was quickly lost. Well, that's what she was here for, to learn all this. As she wandered down the length of it, she saw the various odds and ends of Ratchet's trade, all made to his specifications, some so large and cumbersome they had to be mounted on the ceiling and swung by a rotating arm. There were menacing looking grapplers and pincers, a couple of blowtorches that looked like they could melt Ironhide right through, several enormous drills and bolt-cutters, as well as what she was sure were the Jaws of Life. In the very back there was another set of doors, leading to what Mikaela assumed were either Ratchet's quarters, or a storage closet. Menacing-looking cables and wires ran sinuously throughout, giving the enormous room the look of some techno-organic growth.

All in all, it was the stuff of out of a gear-head's wet dreams. And possibly H.P. Lovecraft's.

In the back, next to the doorway, there was what looked like a cage lift, big enough for even Optimus to fit into. It rose up into a second level; more storage, perhaps? There was even a set of stairs mounted against the wall near the front entrance of the lab that led up to it. Squinting, she noticed a dull blue shimmer in the darkness of the rafters that a catwalk extended from; what was that about?

As she continued to explore, she realized that something was missing. She thought she was supposed to get her own office. Maybe, like, a cubicle or something that was big enough for a workbench and computer and herself. She was already drooling with envy over Ratchet's new domain and all his shiny toys, and she wanted badly to get a little piece of it for herself. But when she asked, Ratchet gave her an inscrutable look. Like he was considering whether to give her the bad news now or later. Something in her chest tightened.

"You're not getting an office, Mikaela. I don't think it quite merits the word."

That didn't sound promising. She blinked hard, trying to read his face, but he was totally deadpan. "So…do I get a station or something? A desk? A chair? Do I at least get a little spinny chair?" Her voice was climbing without her realizing; she cut herself off and coughed in embarrassment.

"There's a chair, yes. I'm not sure if it spins."

Seriously? "So…where is this chair located?"

The look intensified. It also came with a side-helping of smugness. He waved one hand airily towards the metal-wrought set of stairs that were mounted to the immediate left of the main doors. They led steeply up, nearly all the way to the vaulted ceiling, in the shadows. There they turned into a suspended walkway that spanned a few good meters until it disappeared into the strange shimmer she'd noticed earlier.

Eyes wide, she turned to look at him. He looked dryly amused. "I think it's somewhere up there. Go and check, will you?"

…All right then.

Her stomach was quivering as she mounted the metal staircase. It was backless, but wide and sturdy, with heavy side guards. The catwalk was the same; the rails came up a little past her waist, which was nice. It was when she reached it that she stopped again, staring down the walkway.

The doors at the other end were a duplicate of the main ones below. Like the lift, they were just tall enough for Optimus to duck into, if she judged correctly. But it was the wall that stretched the length of the second story, hiding it from prying eyes, that held her full attention. That blue shimmer had been a plasma shield, just barely transparent enough to make out a few silhouettes that left her feeling giddy. Palms sweating, she reached the doors, which opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss. She stopped. She stared.

There was a chair. There was also a state of the art lab that came with it.

She barely - barely - restrained herself from running back down those steps squealing like a Valley girl and attaching herself to Ratchet's leg. She could squeal all she wanted after the tour.

During her explorations, she saw that she was important enough to merit her own private quarters, which were attached to her work space (either that or Alexis had been making up horrible lies, telling them she talked in her sleep or something, and wanted her quarantined). Ratchet had been right; office didn't begin to cover it. There were human-sized diagnostics and miscellaneous equipment, most of which mirrored Ratchet's down below (she had her very own holo-screen and -table!) Like nearly everywhere else on the base, it was more than big enough to hold an Autobot, with two bio-beds, one over-sized, and again, one human-sized. The hovering kind. She spent a good ten minutes just sticking her fingers in and out of the gravity disperser, watching the bed bob up and down with her actions. When she checked the supply closet (walk-in size, of course), she found things like jumper cables and tire gauges and even car wax (she thought of Ironhide and laughed). In the back there was the cage lift, for anyone too heavy for those stairs - or if they were just feeling lazy.

All of this definitely called for a plaque - big enough even for even the humans to see from a distance - with her name and occupation in all caps, and post it at the foot of the stairs. And another one by the lift. Big and brass and official enough for even Simmons.

Upon deciding this, she promptly flew back downstairs, squealing mightily, and flung her arms around Ratchet's nearest available limb - his left leg. "Thank you thank you thank you!" She chanted as she dangled there. He looked down at her bemusedly, shaking his head. A smirk threatened to appear, but he quashed it.

"So I take it the chair does spin."

The Captain wandered in sometime the day after - though not so much wandered as strode with definitive purpose - and was crouching in front of the base of Mikaela's bio-bed, poking at the grav-disperser mechanism, muttering under her breath. Mikaela watched from the corner of her eye as the bed seemed to undulate in place, rising and falling as the Captain stuck one finger, then two, then her whole hand between the generator and the cot. She would never admit to doing the exact same thing yesterday. Medics should have some dignity, after all.

It was funny, though, watching Starling play with the machine just like she had. Mikaela knew that the Captain was very intelligent, and had a bit of a rapport with machinery, but had never seen her actually do anything that could be called 'tinkering' with anything other than her own jet. Little outside the realm of flight seemed to capture Alexis' interest. Though she had seen her fix a toaster once, after Sam had tried stuffing a mini pizza into it (It was after that incident that Starling had decided that Sam needed to know how to cook).

"So," Starling began, finally pulling her hand away and settling back on her heels, "you've got this entire flat to yourself?" She leaned back to survey the rest of the room critically. Mikaela hummed an affirmative, tapping away at the computer, scrolling through Bumblebee's engine diagnostics he'd graciously allowed her to download.

The woman snorted. "God knows more's been given to less deserving, I suppose." At that Mikaela glanced up, brows furrowed. The Captain leveled a Look at her. "You just make sure you keep this place up, don't go exploding anything, yeah?"

Mikaela glared. "I do know the difference between nitro and engine coolant, thanks. I was practically raised inside a garage."

"It shows. You've got something, just - " she motioned towards the girl in general. "There."

Her jaw dropped. "Says the woman who thinks Orange Clean is body lotion." She chucked an '84 Lamborghini manual at her, chasing her away from the bed.

"At least I use it!"

"Oh my God, you didn't."

The Captain veered towards the door, avoiding the next thrown projectile neatly. She paused before exiting, turning towards the girl with arms crossed. "Just," she scowled heavily (something she was very good at), "if you need an extra set of hands, you know, doing a thermal mapping or replacing someone's rear axle, just give me a shout. I do know a thing or two about machines." Her face and voice were stern.

Mikaela stared. "You are the only person I know that sounds like you're under threat of dismemberment when you're offering help." She stared some more. "You're…oh my God, you're jealous! Ha!" She crowed, lounging back in her (spinny) chair triumphantly. "What, getting bored with those decrepit old Raptors? Need an actual challenge once in a while?"

It was her turn to duck - the woman apparently thought throwing a tire gauge was a mature and thoughtful response. "Hey, watch it, this monitor's brand new!"

"Oh, stuff it."

"Don't be jealous…hey, maybe we can find a Seeker for you to upgrade to. You know, since your ride is older than anything I've got here."

A second bottle followed.

"I'll have you know my plane is a state of the art, high-functioning piece of weaponry, capable of advanced - "

"It's an F-22. Didn't they start making those around the same time we discovered petrol?"

The Captain's eyes narrowed, and she glared at Mikaela through her lashes. "Isn't it about time you called your boy?"

Okay, that was cheating. She frumped and crossed her arms, looking away. "I was going to get unpacked first. Get settled in."

"That could take all of a few weeks, knowing you."

"It is not my fault I like to have a new outfit for every day of the week. Unlike some people, who wear the same shirt three days in a row."

Unfortunately, Starling didn't take the bait. Given that she'd been raised by three older brothers, she was well versed in the art of distraction. She leaned against the doorjamb, the corners of her mouth tucked in. She considered the girl in front of her, who was chewing her lip and avoiding her gaze. With a sigh, she pulled herself upright and crossed the room to scoop up the tire gauge. She let Mikaela stew for a minute, appearing to gather her own thoughts as she busied herself.

Finally she dropped the gauge onto its table, and turned back to the girl. Her face had lost its stern edge, and as she rubbed her hands together Mikaela thought that the Captain almost appeared nervous. The girl curled her fingers around her elbows, leaning back in her chair as she waited for the other to speak. As she watched her, it occurred to Mikaela that this might have been the first time the Captain had sought her out specifically, with no one hanging over either's shoulder. Every time they'd conversed in the past, either Sam, Bumblebee, the Colonel, or some other individual had been hovering in the background. And from what she'd observed, the Captain never spoke to anyone unless it was for a explicit purpose.

Well. Maybe Starling was thawing a little. It wasn't so long ago that Mikaela would have laughed at the practical woman's discomfort, instead of waiting patiently for her to find her words. Apparently fighting for your life in an alien war had some side benefits, such as personal growth.

Eventually Mikaela grew tired of watching the Captain dither, and grabbed the extra chair, thrusting it towards her. She scowled at it for a moment before settling in backwards, draping her arms across the backrest.

"Look," she started, "I am absolutely the last person that should be giving out advice like this, but have you really thought about this long-distance business? I mean, sat down and drawn up a list of pros and cons -"

" - A list?"

"And weighed them against each other? Granted, your situation is…unique…but the same rules still apply."

"Rules."

"Yes. Are you going to keep repeating me?"

"Rep- um, no. No, I'm good, sorry. A list, though, really?"

"Relationships aren't exactly the type of thing you can put off or decide upon in a split second, Mikaela. They take careful consideration, dedication, not to mention a few key things in common. Such as being on the same continent."

The girl winced, and ducked her head to study her nails.

"Mikaela."

"Look, what do you want me to say? That if it came down to a choice, of course I'd choose him? That I miss him? That I wish he was here right this very second and that - " Her voice broke, and she curled her hands into fists. "I really do care about him, you know."

"I do know. I think anyone with eyes knows."

"It's just…things. All this." She flung out her arms in an expansive gesture. "This is basically everything I never knew I wanted until it just happened. What was I supposed to do, sit tight in Nevada for the rest of my life, waiting for the next opportunity to drop in my lap? I have one chance, Alexis, one chance to be a part of something. To make a difference. How do you just walk away from that? How?

Why do I have to choose? Why can't I just…have both?"

The look on the Captain's face at that moment reminded Mikaela that she wasn't the only one far from home. Her eyes were tight with a familiar sadness, and she couldn't look for very long before ducking her gaze. Starling's chair creaked as she leaned back to stare at the ceiling. For several long moments neither said anything.

Finally the Captain let out a breath, and kept her eyes on the rafters as she spoke. "For my entire life, I have had people telling me what choices to make. Telling me there wasn't any choice at all, that they knew best and to just accept it. First my father, then my brother. James.

All the opportunities I've been given…were just that, they were given to me. And for most of my life I've just nodded and smiled and tugged my forelock. It was almost a relief, knowing your destiny had already been mapped out for you.

It took me a very long time to realize that all along I had been given a choice: comply, or refuse. I had simply done what they expected of me. But it wasn't out of duty; I chose out of love. I would have slit my wrists rather than disappoint them. Such is the curse of family. You and I? Our people mean more to us than our own lives. And mine used that against me.

It's a fine edge we walk, between their expectations and yours. And those two hardly ever coincide. We aren't always going to get to have it all, Mikaela. Sometimes our future demands sacrifice: to let go of what we already have. So right now you need to decide not only if this is what you want, but what he wants. You've made the decision to be here. Going from there, what do you think is best…for both of you?"

It was the most she had ever spoken to anyone here, Mikaela was willing to bet. As for herself, she couldn't think of a proper response to such raw honesty. Somewhere inside her she could feel the answer to the question, but she couldn't bear to speak it. Not yet. Not when so many other things had been left unspoken. She thought of that night on the beach, and felt her eyes sting. After a few calming breaths, she let out a watery laugh, scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "No sacrifice, no victory, huh.

Question is, what if the sacrifice outweighs the victory?"

The Captain laced her hands together carefully, studying them. "That's the trick, isn't it. Knowing which is which."

After that rather horrible - if enlightening - conversation, the shininess of her new domain dimmed just a little. There was nothing to do except unpack and arrange everything to her liking, and she dragged her feet doing it. It gave her an excuse to fire off quick texts to Sam and her family instead of having to go through the ordeal of speaking.

And of course life went on. The world didn't stop spinning as soon as she was out of the picture; rather, it almost seemed to have sped up, moving at a breakneck pace she had never encountered before. It was exhausting, and left her little time to worry about the nonessential things hovering out of her orbit.

Work helped. The simple day-to-day routine let her ease out of her own skin and into the movements of her task, taking away the tension she felt when idle. She ran on the beach. Played volleyball with the new airmen - of course she'd been on Alexis' team; the Marines might semper fi, but those pilots were just faster. Gave Ironhide a new paintjob. (He enjoyed the red much more than the plain black he'd been stuck with since landing on Earth.) Tuned and retuned her bike. Changed Optimus' tires. Learned chess from the Captain. Picked on the Colonel. Everyone and everything offered a chance to distract herself, and she took them up on it eagerly.

She kept the Ducati as safe as she could, storing it in a private berth in one of the garages, making sure to wipe it down and cover it after every outing. It was a little like taking care of a horse, which she only very vaguely remembered doing once, years and years ago, at camp. But she decided it was the same concept - her own iron horse needed to be kept up and running smoothly, and it would repay her with years of faithful service. It seemed like an even trade, and she was always happy to hold up her end of it. It gave her time to think, and reacquaint herself with the more intricate workings of the machine, all the little tics and nuances that made it run the way it did.

As the days grew shorter and her online classes started, she made sure to find time to keep this in her routine. Her Decepticon was nearly finished - they had completed most of the tests, and she wanted to be absolutely certain her bike was in peak condition when they activated the transformation cog. The paint job wasn't necessarily at the top of her priority list, though she'd been doodling some ideas in her down time - but what if Barricade wanted something different? She found she sometimes needed to remind herself that this wasn't just another bike she was building. If, in fact, he had any personality left by the time the scouring viruses had done their work, then he might want to choose something for himself.

The thought of Ratchet, or anyone, going inside to rummage around in a person's head left her uneasy. He'd sat her down just days ago to explain the process. The virus would scrub out any violent tendencies, and release a delayed trigger program that would ensure he could not use his weapons on humans, unless manually overridden to do so. He had also made her give him a voice sample, a string of sound that would deactivate his motor relays should she need to.

"We're not trying to force a new personality on him, Mikaela. There's nothing left in his databanks; if there were, this wouldn't be possible. You simply can't overwrite a preexisting program of that complexity. We're merely rebooting the system in order to load a starter program, a root function from which all other personality and sociological files can expand."

To her this just sounded like a really fancy way of saying they were erasing him what was left of him, taking out the stuff they didn't approve of and putting in only the things they needed. A whole new kind of personality transplant. It didn't sit well with her; but then, was it really her place to preach ethics to an alien race with such vastly different mores and physiology? So she bit her tongue and kept her head down, and worked on her Decepticon without complaint. He would be able to speak (just not in his own voice, a five-year-old Alexis whispered in the back of her head murmured), and he would be able to fight (just not against the dying of the light, her mother's voice reminded her as she read from one of her books). Those were the only things that seemed to matter.

But the thoughts wouldn't leave her alone; of Alexis, of her mother and her books, and of not having a choice. If someone had been riding her shoulder her entire life, telling her what to say, what to do, what to think…but she had, hadn't she? Her so-called friends, all the boys she'd had; every last one of them had made sure she acted exactly to their expectations. If she hadn't finally grown sick of it all - the hypocrisy, the self-doubt, the social conditioning - God, if she hadn't walked away from Trent that day, would she even be here now? Somehow she didn't think so.

And Barricade was going to wake up with someone else's ideas in his head, never knowing what it was like to speak his own words or fight his own battles. It just didn't feel right.

There were a few hiccups along the way. Of course there were; it wouldn't be her life if there weren't. In between Ratchet disappearing for hours on end and all of her activities, she was surprised the world hadn't imploded while she wasn't looking.

"Somewhere in the Pit there is a list of the tormented, and my name is at the top of it."

Ratchet's voice echoed through the empty space. The scowl he sported deepened as he glared at the display, as if it had suggested he take up macramé. Even from her position halfway across the room she could sense his ire, as he muttered and tapped almost viciously at the holo-screen, scrolling past things too rapidly for Mikaela to make any sense of them.

Almost absently she snipped away the loose end of a copper thread that trailed out of Barricade's chest cavity. Ratchet had been crankier than usual the last few days, often disappearing into the back rooms - what she'd discovered was the ICU - and locking himself in for hours at a time. He had only now emerged from a two-day internment, not even letting her inside to bring him some very pungent high-grade that Ironhide had whipped up. She had only ever seen the rooms once, and didn't notice much difference between the two units. But there was another door at the back of the ICU that was kept locked and kept out of her eyesight. It was probably just Ratchet's personal lab, which when she stopped to think about it, should make her worry even more, not less.

She stifled a sigh. At this point, she was wondering how Ratchet was still in his right mind, he was so obsessive-compulsive.

Finally he straightened, grunting and running a hand absentmindedly across the chevron that was mounted at the front of his helm. It was how she could tell he was processing a puzzle, thinking hard. Her concern - and curiosity - peaked, she set down her tool and wandered across the room, craning her neck to get a better look at his work. Then she understood.

It was Barricade's files: more specifically, his memory sensory files, the only ones Ratchet had been able to salvage. And try as he might, there was no accessing them. She made a sympathetic noise, patting his leg. "Anything I can do?"

He snorted and folded his arms, not taking his optics away from the screen. "Not unless you can get in there and speak directly to the files themselves. I tried converting them to binary, but that worked about as well as an umbrella underwater. I am missing something. It's not just the data; it's quite corrupted, yes, but not to the extent that it should be inaccessible. There's something else at work here, something I haven't factored in."

It was Mikaela's turn to scowl. She mimicked his posture, crossing her arms and staring hard at the display. "Well...he's supposed to be a strategist, right? He had to have figured something like this might happen, that he could get hacked. And if he's as good as you say, then he'll have buried his own memories in so many codes and subroutines that maybe…well, maybe he's the only one that can access them at this point."

The medic groaned and threw up his hands, finally turning away from the screen. "This is not my area of expertise, and there's not many things I can say that about. This was Jazz's field. He was the spy; he could make you tell him things you hadn't even known you were thinking.

We need Jazz."

His voice had gone tight, and Mikaela felt sympathy pangs. In a way, she was almost glad she hadn't gotten to know the mech before he'd been killed. She was used to people leaving her by this point, but that didn't mean she welcomed it. Some things were just better off they way they were.

But it was in neither of the medics' natures to wallow, so Mikaela swallowed the lump in her throat and Ratchet moved briskly to close the files. "We'll just have to make do. I believe you're right; after we get him back online, we should be able to gain access to what we need. He'll give it to us willingly."

And there were the chills again. Ugh, she really needed to get over this. His processor was scrap; there was barely anything left to salvage as it was, much less make use of. It would be a newer, kinder Barricade, and the world would be the better for it.

So why did she still have the creeping feeling that this was going to go very, very wrong?

I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm not doing anything wrong, I'm not…she chanted silently as she snuck downstairs a few nights later. It seemed to work; Ratchet was staying in his quarters, deep in recharge after a long day cleaning Ironhide's cannons of tar and sand, and putting up with said mech. She didn't blame him for being exhausted, especially when It gave her extra time to finish rewriting Barricade's primary directive files.

After studying it for more hours than she cared to admit, she'd finally decided how to work out her little moral dilemma, and set about correcting it. Oh, she wasn't going to let him hurt anyone…but she made some adjustments to his data assimilation core, the systems that regulated how he broke down his data intake and converted it via his personality databank. She just had to pay close attention to her coding, and then she was sure she could do this sort of thing in her sleep - or at least after going for an hour-long jog on the beach, followed by some grueling volleyball, Marines vs. Air Force. (Alexis' team won, to absolutely no one's surprise).

Ratchet, of course, had other ideas about his programming. And her involvement in it. She needed to be supervised.

But Mikaela wasn't disobeying orders, not really. The base was never deserted; both men and mechs made their nightly rounds consistently, whether on duty or off. So she wasn't technically alone.

Plus, hey, Barricade was here. Even if he was unconscious.

Though come to think of it, that's probably why Ratchet gave her the order in the first place. You are not to be in the med bay alone; you are not to even think about further development on Barricade while I am not there. Is that clear enough for you, youngling? He only called her that when he was worried about her, and the thought made her belly squirm. But this was something she had to do, and breaking a few rules to get it done would be worth it. Sacrifice and victory.

She told herself he had meant it in a different context, more to do with all the dangerous, bone-crushing equipment that could malfunction should she try to work it by herself. Barricade himself was no threat. His neural network was sound, finally, but they had disengaged it until Ratchet could make more adjustments to his programming. There was no way he could wake up and do anything, not when he was in forced stasis without any kind of energy supply to support him.

It had started with the coding, until she got it into her head to check the cables that supported the spark chamber - they had been loosened while the construction was still ongoing. They would need to be jacked in so that the relays would be at optimum in-and-output. She hadn't meant to impale herself on that sliver of interior armor, but there she was, bent over Barricade's open chassis, kneeling on his torso, hand caught by that damned spike.

She was wearing her best gloves, and had donned a lead apron and face shield just for the occasion. The gloves were thin but lined with the tightest weave of silk available, for durability and to give her more dexterity during various procedures. The chest armor that was supposed to protect the chamber had been wedged open, and the superfine Adamantium spikes that thrust themselves protectively around the new spark chamber had pricked her countless times as she methodically rigged each cable into the casing.

As she pulled back from the last of the settings, finally done with the task, a sliver that had escaped her detection caught at her glove as she pulled back. Thinking it would simply slip off, and impatient to be done, she yanked back harder than she should have. The splinter sliced straight through her silk-lined gloves like a hot knife in butter, biting deep into her palm. With a stifled cry, she dropped the wrench she had been wielding and went still, to avoid further injury. Mikaela watched with a sinking stomach as blood gushed hotly across her palm and down the metal shard, coating it in crimson.

When she attempted to carefully dislodge it, the shard only sank in deeper. Sucking in a lungful of air, she gritted her teeth and fished around in her apron pocket for a scrap of cleaning cloth, anything to stem the flow of blood that still dripped down. As she frantically patted herself down, she kept her watering eyes on the impaled hand.

Her blood continued to seep slowly down the spear, and as she watched, it ran its course down into the Deception's chest cavity. The cleaning cloth eluded her, and she tried to keep still. Soon all she could hear were her own wheezing breaths, and the dull spatter of her blood as it dotted the exterior of the spark chamber. Primus, how much blood was in her hand, anyway? It wouldn't stop. She swayed on her knees, suddenly overcome with vertigo, and she clung to the edge of the gaping chest with her other hand, feeling more splinters bite down on her clenched fingers. Breathing carefully through her nose and out her mouth, she attempted to steady herself. She had seen blood before – buckets of it, tidal waves of it, in Mission City. It shouldn't make any difference that it was her own this time.

That's not it, she thought as she felt acid burn the back of her throat. A weight was slowly settling itself across her shoulders, creeping down her spine until she could no longer hold herself upright. Her knees protested as she leaned forward, trying to catch her balance. The sharp edges of armor still bit into the gloved fingers of her good hand, and she could feel the pulse of her blood as it throbbed at her wrists, her temples, her throat, watching as the beat of her heart pushed more blood out onto the chamber. The place where the armor speared her pulsated, white hot with agony. The feeling shot all the way up her arm and into her chest, as if the pain were setting her blood on fire.

This cannot be happening again. Primus, how many extraterrestrial experiences can a person have in one summer?

The weight held her down, until her head dropped down into the chest cavity. Her whole body shook with the effort to hold herself up, and she could feel the sting of sweat burning at the corner of her eyes. Once more she found herself unable to breathe, unable to make a sound as something pulled her down, down, her injured appendage bending at an excruciating angle as she struggled to keep it from tearing open further. Her attempts were futile, and as her good arm gave out, the shard that held her left hand captive tore free, and she just managed to catch herself from slamming into the chamber face-first.

Searing pain fired her nerve endings anew; she choked on a silent scream. Spots swam across her vision, and she gagged soundlessly, the looming walls that enveloped her upper body scraping against her. Her left hand, the one that had been impaled, lay flat against the chamber where she had caught herself. Shaking, she tried to pull herself back up, but it was as if the pain had sucked every last bit of willpower from her bones. Her good hand fumbled, dragging along the jagged wall of metal uselessly as she scrambled for purchase. All the while, blood continued to seep from her wound.

As she watched through bleary eyes, a coat of crimson slowly gathered beneath her gloved hand, trickling across the pockmarked surface of the spark chamber as if pulled by gravity. It spilled into every crevice; every sliver of opening that riddled the chamber seemed to yawn wider as it welcomed the blood into its heart. It would have been fascinating to watch, if it hadn't been her blood it was sucking up so ravenously.

Carefully, oh so carefully, she slid until her knees nearly touched the table on either side of the Con's waist, straddling him so she could gain some leverage. It was as she was slowly easing back, heedless to the edges biting into her good hand, that she noticed it. The white-hot operating lights washed out most of the color in her vision, turning the mirror bright armor into a sea of sunlight on metal. She squinted, halting in her efforts, and leaned forward again - I need to see what's happening: I'm a medic, I should know these things, she thought.

Through the minute gaps in the casing where her blood had leaked through - leaked, not pulled, she told herself sternly - she could see the white-blue glow of his spark. That in itself wasn't alarming. It was the pulsing that caught her eye. It's not supposed to be doing that anymore; he isn't online or hooked up to a power supply. The pain was causing her vision to waver in the too-bright lights, that's all it was. As she pulled forward just a little bit farther, her hand slid back down onto the chamber, resting in its former position. Her hand, the pulsating light…well, this was familiar.

Once more she felt the throb of her blood, all the way through her hand and up her arm and behind her eyelids, and then realized it wasn't her. Not entirely. Beneath her the casing was vibrating, a faint but familiar rhythm that shook its way through her skull and down her spine and into a place beneath her ribs: her heart, pounding in its cage, seemed to by trying to shake itself free to beat in time with the cadence. Beneath her it came in through the table, making her toes inside of their sneakers tingle. Her pulse tripped and stammered, adjusting itself; as she watched she saw something like heat lightning flare through the seams, so much like the first night she had stood too close, when the light had reached for her.

As before, her blood seemed to burn in her veins, searing her from the inside out. She couldn't summon the energy to move away; every effort she made simply pulled her in. On instinct her eyes closed against the brilliant light, but she could see it, feel it behind her eyelids. It was blinding. It was terrifying.

She couldn't let it show. She had to be strong, she had to make sure she gave them nothing -

-you might as well offline me now; I know all your tactics. I even invented a few of them.

Rasping, hoarse laughter. Oh, I knew not all of you Autobots were noble and true. I agree, it would not work so well if you knew what was coming. It's the anticipation of the unknown that wreaks such havoc on your processor, as much as the physical pain.

Pain. So much that it feels as if her spark might collapse in on itself, like a dying star. Yet her training, her programming, her very being resists it, fortifies her from the worst of it. That familiar feeling takes hold in her chest; methodically she barricades herself with it, throwing up shields embedded at her sparking. She drifts behind her walls for a bit, dimly feeling her body as they slowly pull it apart, piece by piece. It will do them no good. This is what she had been made for.

She lets the distant pain kindle her fury, a frozen heat in her core. Others burn fast and hot and let that rage turn their insides to ash. Hers is a long, slow burn, cold and implacable. It's always been there, as far back as she can remember. There is nothing in particular to be angry about - only the injustice done to her at her sparking, only the isolation and fear directed at her for being nothing more than a war machine, only the utter ruin of her home and her brothers and everything she ever loved - no. There is no reason to be so angry. It was just how she was built.

During a lull she comes back to herself, still quietly seething. There is an ache in her shoulder joints and arms from where she's been strung up; her toecaps barely brush the floor. Clinically she notes the broad swath of tools and implements they had used against her, laying so innocuously on the tray. Then she takes stock of her injuries, percentages of damaged equipment and hardware scrolling across her vision. In front of her looms the shape of her interrogator, backlit by the operating lights; automatically she registers his position and placement according to the layout of the room. Despite the waning percentage of her chances of either rescue or escape, she imprints everything. Always have a backup plan.

Above her the cold light burns into her optics; she closes them against it lest they do permanent damage. More time passes inside her processor; they are doing something to her arms, she feels. With a slightly beleaguered feeling she realizes she might need some new appendages after all of this is over. Ratchet will patch her back up; thanks to the twins' scavenging they have plenty of spare parts to pass around.

In between sessions she needles her interrogator, intending to set him over the edge, possibly to make a mistake or simply offline her in a fit of rage. But this one is a professional, used to the calculated vitriol she delivers him. Such tactics will not work here.

Another age passes. Then she realizes he is speaking once more, over her shoulder this time, to someone in the doorway. Someone with a heavy arsenal and a defensive position should she decide she's had enough. If only.

He's not going to break, is he.

It doesn't seem so. Initiate the program download, will you? I've a mind to try it on this one.

You mean the shell -

Of course, you imbecile. I've deduced that this one may be beyond even my vast capabilities. But no one can resist my Program.

No. No.

Fear and rage clamor for attention in her spark. She knows what the interrogator speaks of. It was what she came for. She will make them kill her before they upload it.

But no. She has already tried that, lobbed her most cutting, scathing observations and insults at him, wielded subtly and artfully, and nothing changed.

She will have to do it herself.

A breath is taken through her denta, what remains of it. It whistles strangely between the cracks. She rolls her helm until she is looking Shockwave straight in the optics. Smiles a little. He smiles back. She does not let him see her thoughts as she quietly initiates her own program, her only way out now, it seems. As it boots, she feels what is left of her fear begin to ebb, and she welcomes back the anger. It's her fuel, her drive, her lets it speak for her.

My designation is Prowl. My interstream data code is thirty-two point oh nine seven eight. My rank is Second. My designation is Prowl. My interstream data code is thirty-two point oh nine seven eight. My rank is Second.

My designation is Prowl -

The Con's virus enters through the base of her cranium, just below her helm. It is cold and quiet and uncaring - they are much alike. The words still flow, though they are more sluggish and unsteady than they were nanoseconds before. Still she presses on, the rage fueling her, reminding her, barricading her within her own identity.

As she speaks something comes slowly over her, an encroaching heat that creeps through her processor alongside the cold indifference of the program and her own thoughts. It feels like memory files and the impressions of faces, of voices she will never hear again: her younger brother; her comrades-in-arms. She only hopes they will think fondly of her, after, and then forget. Forgetting would be better than the pain of remembering.

One voice stands out above it all; it is at once alien and familiar, fierce and melancholy. Deafening. Blinding. Her optical and neural relays must be shutting down. Rage or something close to it heats her from within, crushing the spark inside her chest as she strains to listen above the din.

Don't go. Don't. Fight it.

-Command: offline sequence begin.-

My designation is Prowl.

Please just hang on. Be strong.

-Report: offline sequence initiating.-

My designation is Prowl.

You can't let them win. Rage, rage against it!

-Report: download in progress. At thirty-eight percent. Forty-five percent. Sixty-eight. Eighty three. Ninety seven -

My designation is -

Wake up wake up wake -

(Rage, and the dying of the light.)

Crackling light slid in between her closed eyelids, burning her retinas. She gasped, squeezing them tightly shut, feeling something wet on her face. Thirty-two point oh nine seven eight. The voice still echoed in the air around her, steady and strong and without fear. I have to wake up, she thought dimly. I'm not offline yet, I have to wake back up. I have to help him.

For those few seconds that lasted lifetimes, she lay there, unable to move, unable to look. The coldness that sluiced through her veins slowly dissipated, leaving numbness in its wake. She took a breath, then another. Alive. She was still alive.

And she had to get up. She had to look, she had to make sure it had worked. She'd been screaming, hadn't she? Wasn't that her voice she still heard, ringing in her ears, so cold and full of fury?

What worked? What was I trying to do? I can't remember. There was nothing but the voice and her fear. Not for herself, but for someone else. She'd been trying to warn him -

Abruptly she felt the need to vomit. Acid burned the back of her throat, her nostrils. She kept it down, barely, sucking in slow breaths. Pain lingered in her limbs, words hanging around her like banners without a breeze. They dove deep down inside her, searing her throat and eyes and chest. My designation is Prowl.

No, it wasn't. It couldn't be. His name is Prowl. Was. It was. She had felt that calm, unbroken rage that buried itself in her chest, refusing to let go, and had panicked. She had forgotten herself. He had forgotten himself.

God, her head hurt. So, for some reason, did her hand. When she clenched it, a burning sensation shot through her arm. She decided not to do that again.

She leaned forward, eyes still closed, seeing it all play out again against the backs of her lids. Dimly she felt the edges of the chassis biting into her skin, felt the rumble of a spark beneath her, but for the life of her she couldn't move.

The lightning was gone now. Cautiously she cracked open her eyes, blinking slowly. Took a few deep breaths to steady herself. As she did, somewhere in front of her came a hiss, a venting sound. Something moved beneath her, expanding then receding. A slow, steady rocking motion, like she was on a ship. She bit her lip, and lifted her hands up to steady herself, taking care to keep pressure off her left one, bracing against the walls of metal that lay spread to either side of her. Warm metal, like it had been out in the sun for hours. She had been freezing before, she was sure of it.

As she ducked down to gain some leverage, she finally saw what her eyes had touched on. Even in the artificial light she could see the seams glittering, the chamber filled to capacity with an active spark. It beat a soft, subtle rhythm that slowly deepened as she watched and felt her own heart speed up. Barricade. This was Barricade she had been working on, they'd broken him, and she was -

She choked on her own breath, mind and chest stuttering with the effort to remember herself. As she panted she felt the rumble of vents once more, keeping pace with her. Frantically she clawed till she was upright, and stared down the length of him.

His head was turned from the light as if shielding his optics - no, they'd lain him that way, she was sure of it; he couldn't have moved. Again the bulk beneath her shifted and vibrated, warmth seeping in through her overalls. Blinking rapidly to remove the spots from her eyes, she slid clumsily off to one side of the Con and reached out to hit the operating light. The room descended into an imperfect darkness. The only illumination was shed from the open chassis and from his faceplates.

That couldn't be right. She was obviously still seeing things. Fumbling, she climbed back onto him to close up his chest armor, smoothing it back down into the rest of him. For a moment she simply sat there, leaning into him, feeling the heat of him soak into her skin. Despite herself she felt her muscles loosening. Lifting a shaking hand she scrubbed at her eyes, willing the afterimages to go away. She dropped her hand to spread it across his shoulder, and opened her eyes again.

Her brain stalled. It took a few seconds to realize that she was looking into brightly lit optics, glowing white-hot, and rather confused looking.

To Be Continued In Part Two…

As always, concrit/complaints/flowery compliments are welcome. Part two will be here in a few days, once I've smoothed out a couple of the scenes.