AN: So it's my birthday today and you guys get a(n early) present. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers or any poems by Siegfried Sassoon.

Warnings: Angsting, panicking, pessimistic, angry Sunstreaker.

Acknowledgements: I forgot to mention the lovely the-spoon-of-doom who encouraged me to write this when I presented her with the original idea (and storyboard, which hasn't actually changed much since I wrote it).

The General by Siegfried Sassoon

'Good-morning; good-morning!' the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
'He's a cheery old card,' grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

. . . .
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

Sunstreaker stalked through hallways like an angry tiger sending bot after bot scuttling to the side in order to avoid him. He hadn't been in the best of moods since the battle and his brother's near-death and this ridiculous summons by Prowl was grating on the last remaining shred of his tether. Sideswipe still hadn't woken up and his only consolation so far had been that Ratchet had deemed the situation safe enough to move back into his own quarters, rather than be on hand for all emergencies in his office.

Of course he could still feel his twin via their bond, but that was paltry comfort when his brother lay on a berth like he was dead. Ratchet had put heavy medical buffering in place to prevent Sideswipe from waking up, in order to speed his recovery along. Or so the medic had said.

Sunstreaker couldn't help but suspect something else was wrong. It was the way Ratchet looked at first Sideswipe then Sunstreaker himself, as if he didn't know what to say. Usually Ratchet always had something to say and him being lost for words was unusual to say the least. Since the last major operation he'd stayed on edge because of this shift in attitude because he suspected it meant bad news.

At least he knew it wasn't that Sideswipe was going to die, no, that much had been said, his twin was not going to the Well anytime soon (and to those who said he was going to the Pit, they could go frag themselves). On the other hand what could be so wrong with Sideswipe that Ratchet was afraid of saying it? If Sideswipe was going to be out of action for a long time they would handle it. Sideswipe always had to take care of Sunstreaker's social inadequacies so Sunstreaker would keep Sideswipe from offlining of boredom. He had no idea how he'd do it but he would do it, whatever it took.

He finally arrived at Prowl's office and entered, only to stop and stare when he saw the collection of officers in front of him. There was Prowl, looking somehow more… controlled than usual and Ratchet looking more tired and defeated than he'd ever seen the CMO. If the latter hadn't set internal alarms in his processor off already they would definitely have been activated by the uncharacteristically grim Jazz, who wasn't even leaning against the wall in a (faked) casual pose. He could also feel thick tension in the air, as if there had just been an argument between the three.

Sunstreaker did not like the look of this at all. So he turned snappy, like he was prone to do when a situation didn't agree with him. "What's this about Prowl?"

Prowl's doorwings tensed up slightly and his face became, if possible, even more severe. It was the face that every judge and policeman wished they could have, if only to scare the impertinent little brats who had been giving them shit into running home to their mothers.

He didn't speak though, instead Jazz spoke grimly, "This is about Sideswipe's… situation."

Sunstreaker's spark went cold with fury and then with fear. No. No. NO! This was not happening. This could not be happening, he refused to believe it.

None of the officers continued, evidently waiting for him to voice the question. Or maybe they were lost for words, these mechs whom he trusted to order him what to do on the battlefield, to give him intel, send him to the right spots and fix him when he was injured. He was not the one who talked. They were.

If he couldn't trust them to talk right now when he needed them most, how would he be able to trust them on the battlefield again?

They remained silent and through gritted denta he ground out "What about Sideswipe?"

This time it was Ratchet who replied, "If you're worrying that I am about to tell you he's on his deathbed, don't. He's not going to die. It's much worse."

His voice was soft, much softer than he'd ever heard Ratchet address him before, and it twisted his world. He felt like he'd been dropped into a chasm; a deep, dark, icy chasm from which he would never be able to come out. What surrounded him in that chasm was fear; pure unadulterated fear that permeated every part of his being, never to be removed again. He hadn't felt like this in a long time. Not since…

And Ratchet was continuing, oblivious to Sunstreaker's turbulent emotions.

"A connector on his spark casing was damaged."

Wait, was that it? Was that all that was wrong with Sideswipe? Why would Ratchet be making such a big deal of this?

"It was deemed too risky to attach a new cable to the connector, resulting in some instability in his spark. Since I do not have the medical expertise to replace the connector this condition is permanent."

What? Why couldn't Ratchet replace this connector thing. Sunstreaker had seen them plenty of times when ripping casings out of chests, they were just little ports in a spark chamber. So what if it was close to a mech's spark, for Primus's sake it was just like replacing a fragging port. Right?

"Why?" The word didn't seem to come from him, it was more like a moan than a word and Sunstreaker knew, made sure, he never sounded like that. He didn't even know what he meant by the question.

Ratchet seemed to though. "Even on Cybertron operations to replace connectors on a spark-chamber were heinously difficult and only the most qualified experts could perform them. There was always a fifty/fifty chance whether they'd work, no matter how qualified the medic in question. I have never performed nor observed such an operation. If I tried it, the likelihood of Sideswipe surviving would be less than five percent."

Less than five…?

"What's going to happen to him?" Again the words didn't seem to come from him and contained more moan than words.

This time it was finally Prowl who answered, "He's never going to be able to fight again."

AN: I'm never going to be able to keep to "a chapter a week" am I. Oh well, I have chapters four through seven written already as well as part of twelve and all of thirteen.
My muse really likes this story.

Next time: Guilt

Review please. :)

Eli