Author's Note:

I like this chapter. ^-^ I like it when I like my chapters. I think I ought to say that overall, this story? It has officially passed the 500 pages mark in Book Antiqua 11pt font, NO spacing. :O

Anyways, much love to all of you guys faithfully posting those reviews that feed me to get the next chapter up! Hope you all enjoy it!

"YO!"

All the Vehicons looked up at the shout.

Flanked by the Wreckers, Nightflier grinned down at them, jerking a thumb back to the mechs. "If you surrender the energon, I promise I won't sic these guys on you!"

There was a pause, as if they were garnering up the courage to attack—or, truly debating his option—before they drew their weapons. Nightflier couldn't help but smirk as he watched the more seasoned warriors take off down the mountainside, immediately decimating the front. From the rear, the Stealth team flawlessly cut down the flank, the helpful toys Ultra Magnus's ship had been packing being a great deal of help.

Speaking of such, Wheeljack had the whip he and Nightstalker notoriously fought over. He had initially won it in an unfair arm wrestling match, but Nightflier had opted to leave his sister and his father behind, along with Cliffjumper to placate his angry sister.

Then—

Wait just one darned minute!

Suddenly aware he had let his mind wander with appreciation over watching his troops dominate the field of battle, Nightflier hurried down, and by the time he had made it, he groaned.

"Man! You guys couldn't have left me one?"

Bulkhead laughed, disarming. "You snooze, you lose!"

"Look at all that sweet fuel," Smokescreen said, holding up a crystal appreciatively.

Nightflier smiled, relieved to know that finally SOMETHING was going right for once! They got the energon they needed, the battle was flawless, no one got hurt—

Catching Ultra Magnus looking at him, the second in command gave a small inclination of his helm towards the cave entrance. OH.

Trying to stifle a slightly embarrassed blush, Nightflier said, "Well, okay, uh, Stealth team, take all that juicy energon back to base. And Wreckers? Reconnoiter the mine."

"I've always wanted to roll with the Wreckers!"

Nightflier blinked at Smokescreen who looked to Ultra Magnus. He quickly snapped to attention, tacking on, "Sir."

Striving to keep things as easy going as they were, Nightflier waved him off. "Good idea, Smokescreen. You might learn a thing or two from these guys. Permission granted."

He watched as the Wreckers with their tagalong Smokescreen disappear into the mine. He waited a moment, and when he heard no movement, turned with a cheeky grin to them.

"The energon isn't gonna move itself, sweet sparks!"

They blinked at him. Bumblebee started to venture something, stopped, and it was finally Arcee that crossed her arms and rolled her optics. "Am I calling the bridge, or are you, Nightfall?"

Blushing sheepishly, Nightflier touched his audio. "Hey, Ratchet? We're ready for that bridge."

Almost immediately, the bridge opened up. Glancing to the swirling portal, Nightflier extended his servos to it with a teasing glint in his optics to Arcee.

"Ladies first."

She didn't even grace him with an answer to that. Instead, she just grabbed the nearest batch of energon, pushing it through the ground bridge. Oddly, before Bumblebee could begin to go through, Nightflier blinked wide when he saw his father come out of the bridge.

Nightflier looked up at him. "Yeah? Something wrong?"

Dreadwing looked at his hand thoughtfully. "Nightstalker wants me to hit you because she says I will hurt you more than she could."

The young Prime shrank back a little, giving him a dubious look. "Are you going to?"

His fist clenched, and he glanced towards Nightflier. "Do you want me to?"

"Not particularly," he said truthfully, backing up a bit more. He knew his father could pack quite the punch.

He lowered his fist with a nod of his helm. "Then I won't. If she is angry at you, she may confront you how she wills."

Nightflier pinched his brow that afternoon, sighing. "She's still mad at me?"

Dreadwing gave a slight shrug. "She wanted to fight, and you refused her. Why?"

"Well—I—You know—She—" Fumbling for his words a moment, Nightflier couldn't come up with a response. But he DID look over at Bumblebee, just realizing that the young scout was still with them. The yellow and black mech gave a guilty whir and all but ran his load of energon through the bridge.

When Nightflier failed to answer, Dreadwing hiked his brow up and put his servos on his hips. Nightflier squirmed, feeling his father's disapproval through his spark. "Why did you choose not to take me along?"

That seemed to settle Nightflier into something he knew how to answer. "Aw, c'mon, really? If I had taken everyone, that would have been way overkill! I mean, I probably had more than enough guys as it was!"

"You could have chosen different soldiers," Dreadwing calmly pointed out. Arcee came back through the bridge for the last batch of energon, and the conversation lagged awkwardly as she slowly pushed the energon through the bridge. Only when she was through did Dreadwing continue. "Nightstalker and I are fliers. If you were thinking truly tactical, we would have been a top choice for a quick and effective strike from above." He swept a hand out towards the fallen troops. "We knew our foe would be land based Vehicon troopers. Miner class. An air strike would have decimated them."

Nightflier mimicked his gesture by throwing an arm out to the fallen enemy. "Still worked, didn't it?"

Dreadwing vented in frustration, and he crossed his arms. "Nightfall, you are avoiding the question."

"You know, I told you that you could call me Nightflier when we're alone."

"Right now, I am speaking to you as my Prime, if you will." He paused. "And a disapproving father."

Fluttering his wings nervously, Nightflier shuffled his peds across the ground. "Nightfall?" He jumped sharply hearing Ratchet's voice over the comm. link. "Are you and Dreadwing coming?"

He touched his audio. "Yeah, Ratchet, give us a minute. We're having a . . . complicated talk. We'll be right through in a minute." He crossed his arms as well, frowning. "So?"

A soft grumble stewed in Dreadwing's chassis. "I am saying simply that you are not using us according to our abilities, but holding us back. What I want you to do is tell me why."

Nightflier pursed his lips stubbornly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Dreadwing grunted. "Then why didn't you let Nightstalker fight? You forced Cliffjumper to stay behind against his will just to placate her."

A hot little blush began to scratch its way up his throat. "She's not fully trained yet."

"And how can she be trained unless she receives experience?"

"Just what are you saying?"

"I'm saying you need to let go," Dreadwing stressed to him, both father and son standing legs akimbo and arms crossed. "You're stifling her."

"I'm protecting her," Nightflier snapped back, jutting his chin up and refusing to let his father's greater stature intimidate him.

A vent blasted from Dreadwing's systems. "And how is crippling her of the ability to protect herself helping to protect her? What if you aren't there to protect her?"

"I will be!" The hot flush of anger began to steal over his cheeks, and his arms slacked tight to his sides, hands clench into fists. "I'm not going to let her get hurt again! All right? I won't put her at risk!"

Dreadwing's darker blue optics flickered, and his wings tilted downward in disapproval. "That kind of attitude is not fit in a commander," he reminded him strictly, holding his temper in check. "You—"

Nightflier interrupted him with a scoff, wings flaring wide in agitation. "Oh Cybertron below me, don't you start spouting that at me as well. I know what I'm doing!"

His lip curled just a tiny bit. Dear Primus above, he was just like him! "You're just being stubborn," Dreadwing said testily, optics darkening a shade. "I'm trying to protect you from the same mistakes I made!"

"You can't protect me from everything!"

"And you can't protect Nightstalker from everything! She is a full grown femme, Nightflier, not the same child you remember! You can't always be there for her, and if you continue to do this, you're going to lose her!"

"I won't!" Nightflier shouted back at him, wingtips snapping to the ground, visibly showing his anger. "Don't you see? I won't lose her again! I can't! Not you, not her, I'm not risking it! Frag me flying, I'm NOT going to lose you guys again, and if that means quarantining you both to base, I'll do it! I will! I won't go through losing you again!"

The tiniest crunch of a rock made both quarreling parties turn towards the entrance of the cave. Smokescreen and Bulkhead stared, clearly having found nothing inside.

Nightflier swallowed. Instinctively, both he and Dreadwing took a step away from each other. "How long have you been standing there?"

Bulkhead shifted uncomfortably. "Uh . . ."

A flush slowly colored Smokescreen's cheeks. Bringing a hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat, saying, "Um, long enough."

Heaving a great vent, Nightflier closed his optics and pinched his brow, rocking back on his heels. Wonderful. Putting his servos on his hips, he looked up at them. "Could I persuade you not to talk about this to anyone?"

"Sure thing," Smokescreen said quickly.

Bulkhead nodded as well. "All you need to do is ask—"

A blast deep from within the cave made them all stagger by the force of it, and Smokescreen whipped his head back. "What was that?"

For a second, no one breathed. "Wait a second," Nightflier stalled. Using the built-in seismometers in his peds, Nightflier felt for more vibrations. At first, there were no more coming. Then, he felt another. It was smaller, but the fact he could feel that slam at all spoke of the force behind it.

"They finally find the extra security?" Smokescreen asked helpfully.

Nightflier held up a hand. "Shh!" He didn't know why he wanted him quiet. The seismometer measured the vibrations in the earth, not sound, but for the sake of his concentration, he had to know . . . Another crash. Faint. For a minute, Nightflier was unsure of what he was feeling, but it had to be a battle. They had to be fighting. It was the only explanation.

"Something's wrong," he finally said. He glanced between them before his gaze settled on his father. Dreadwing's brow cinched at him. "Look," he stressed, already not in the mood to renew the fight, "I'm going to have to ask something hard of you, and that's to trust me. I know what I'm doing, and I need you to respect my decision, all right?"

Dreadwing merely gave a silent nod of his helm, and Nightflier looked back to Bulkhead and Smokescreen. His lips pressed, and he swore quietly under his breath as he looked back to his father. He needed his heaviest hitter. He could feel the crashes in the earth through his peds, and he knew they were fighting a real brawler, a serious battle. They needed help, and his father was the most advanced fighter they had.

He was a seeker too. He could get back there much faster than either Bulkhead or Smokescreen could, confined to their wheels. There was just enough room in that opening for his wingspan. And they needed speed. They needed to get back there quickly.

Nightflier looked back to Bulkhead and Smokescreen again, knowing they had to get a move on now. He had already wasted precious time thinking—

Swearing again under his breath, Nightflier ordered, "Dad, we'll check it out. Bulkhead, Smokescreen, report back to base. Tell Ratchet to lock onto my coordinates and await my command." Without any further ado, Nightflier gestured for Dreadwing to come, and they took off just as Bulkhead and Smokescreen hurried back into the ground bridge.

Weaving through the cave, Nightflier and Dreadwing flew their way deep into the heart of danger. And when they drew upon the sight that met them, lightning fast communication happened through their sparks, delineating a simple order.

Duck.

Nightflier transformed to his bipedal form and staggered a step as his father went hurtling past in jet form. At the last second, Dreadwing transformed and utterly CRASH-tackled into the single most massive mech Nightflier had ever seen before in his life. However, the Prime didn't dwell on his enemy yet, only the two fallen mechs on the ground.

Nightflier pitched to his knees next to Ultra Magnus, energon tanks rolling at the sight of his crushed fingers in the dirt. He touched his comm. link, snapping, "Ground bridge! Now! Ultra Magnus and Wheeljack need medivac IMMEDIATELY!"

Primus, that was a lot of energon—His head jerked up when he heard his father cry out in pain, and he witnessed Dreadwing yank away with claw marks slashed into his side. When he kicked the legs from beneath his taller adversary, Nightflier looked back down in a slight panic at his second in command.

"Magnus! Magnus!" It was no use. He had already passed out from the pain and energon loss. A heavy, unintelligible moan brought his gaze up to the dusty white mech. "Wheeljack? Stay awake!" He jumped when the ground bridge blasted open, and the instant he caught sight of Ratchet, he scrambled to his peds, grabbing the first weapons he found—the whip.

"Get them out of here, now!" he shouted as Bulkhead rushed in right behind the doctor. Trusting them to take care of them, Nightflier turned to where his father was losing valiantly against the mech so much stronger than himself. Running forward as the mech literally picked up Dreadwing and tossed him across the cave, Nightflier tried to ignore the fact that he literally only came up to the mech's thigh.

With a yell, Nightflier lashed the electrical whip around the mech's left servo. Ducking across the right and opposite side, Nightflier ducked back between his legs and heaved with all his strength. Surprise was the only thing that gave him the advantage he needed. The mech snarled as he crashed face first into the ground, and Nightflier leapt on his back, drawing his sword and going for the neck.

A wing successfully clipped his jaw, and Nightflier reared before a clawed hand reached up and grabbed him. He cried out when those claws sank deep through his armor and into his protoform, nearly impaling straight through his shoulder. The world reeled in disoriented flight before Nightflier felt himself hit an unforgiving wall and collapse in a heap on the ground.

Groaning, he heard the crunch and fizzle of the whip getting destroyed. Lashing his shield to his arm, Nightflier staggered back to his peds and ran back into the fray where his father battled physical brutality with hands and feet against his more powerful enemy. Nightflier's gaze flattened. They just needed to distract him long enough!

He attacked low while his father attacked high. Throwing himself back into the fray, Nightflier ducked beneath a vicious slash of claws before slamming his shield against his knee. He danced to the side, slashing his sword and cutting the hand that descended towards him. The mech snarled angrily and turned to the opposite side where Dreadwing was pressing the attack, and Nightflier ducked and rolled, lunging and digging his blade into the mech's ankle. An agonized roar, and before Nightflier could get his Achilles heel, that ped kicked him square on and sent him hurtling across the field of battle.

Skidding and tumbling across the ground, Nightflier groaned back to his peds, the edge of the ground bridge energies tickling one of his wings. Lifting his helm, his spark plummeted as he saw the mech's claws grab his father and sling him across to the opposite side of the cave with a sickening crash.

Someone grabbed his arm. Nightflier jumped, almost attacking them before realizing it was Arcee. "Dreadwing!" she hollered across the way, trying to drag him through the bridge. "Now, now, NOW!"

Nightflier twisted from her grip and pushed her away. "Get out of here!" he ordered her in no uncertain terms. With a low growl, he sheathed his blade, racing forward several steps and drew his stun gun, shooting the mech square on the back of the neck. Instead of felling the mech as the blast should have, his armor was so thick it did no more than make him roar in anger and whirl on Nightflier.

The kick of jet engines signaled his father, and Nightflier continued shooting the mech that was barreling towards him. The second Dreadwing was clear of the ground bridge, he turned and fled as he heard another transformation. Self-preservation made him look back at the last second, and Nightflier's spark hit his stomach when he saw the Predacon, fires glowing up through its neck. Fear blossomed.

The Predacon!?

At the entrance of the ground bridge, Nightflier wildly turned back to face his adversary, lifting his shield in between the oncoming blast of fire. He yelled a garbled sound as he felt his entire body lifted and blasted through the ground bridge, but the stream of flames didn't stop. His peds hit the ground again inside the hangar, and he heard several shouts.

The toes of his peds dug into the ground, and his entire body strained forward against the stream of flames. His shield and armor began to burn incredibly hot. "RATCHET!" he howled. "Turn it OFF!"

He had barely finished the words when the ground bridge shut off, locking the Predacon out as well as his fire. So far in his lunge, Nightflier crashed forward into the ground. Vents coming fast in raw panic, Nightflier wildly cast off his shining hot shield and the armor of his left arm, trying to make the heat recede from his body. For a second, he didn't register that he was hyperventilating—but a careful brush against his spark reminded him of his father who was trying to soothe him, assuring him they were all right.

Nightflier whirled around to face the others in the room, sick with worry and afraid out of his mind. Ultra Magnus was already on Ratchet's table, stretched out and several crunched pieces of armor already removed. Nightstalker was helping Wheeljack who was at least conscious, but felt every cut and bruise and cracked armor. Dreadwing was bullied, but in bearable shape; he kept a clawed servo over the shallow cuts in his stomach, mere mesh wounds.

There was a ringing in his audios. He could see Nightstalker's mouth moving, but he couldn't make out her words. And suddenly, the fire was back. It was blazing, suffocating him in the forefront of his optics, choking him on the smoke. And he could smell it. He could smell burning protoform, a sickening smell of decaying flesh, and he could feel the burns creeping up his back, down his arms, everywhere he was. It ate his flesh, burned the nerve endings from his protoform until his back was nothing but tough leather and unfeeling.

Bolting across the room to where Nightstalker was fully facing him in worry, he grabbed her shoulders, nearly shaking her he was so wound up. "Are you all right?" he cracked out, optics glinting mad in terror. He checked her over, touching her, making sure she was in one piece, she was real, she was all right—"You're not hurt?" he asked again before she could answer.

"Nightfli—"

"You aren't hurt? You're not damaged? Nothing hurts? You're alive? You're all right?"

"Fli-Ni—"

"But I didn't find you—You're all right? Nights? Nights, answer me, are you—"

"NIGHTFLIER!" She shouted in his face and got him to flinch back. Her orange optics frowned at him. "I am FINE. YOU'RE the one leaking energon all over the floor!" Nightflier blinked slowly at her, almost stupidly as his processor caught up with his panic. "You sent me back to base, remember?" There was only a small degree of anger anymore in the event of bigger things. She patted his cheek when he was still too unresponsive. "Nightflier!"

He jerked again, jolting back to the present. His optics darted around the room and saw all the bots looking at him—save Ratchet, who was busy—and he suddenly realized where he was. With a thin gasp, he staggered back a step, blurting, "Sorry! I'm sorry, I just—Sorry, I—" He swallowed and sucked in a tight breath. Looking down at the floor, he saw where his energon was dripping fat splotches, and he suddenly felt woozy with lack of energon. And—oh Primus, that burning smell was real! That burned pain was real!

Wildly, Nightflier tried to jerk his own arm away from himself, and he went reeling before Nightstalker grabbed him and steadied him. "Nightflier! Calm down—SIT."

Nightflier stumbled backwards a little before his aft plopped down where Nightstalker sat him. Gesturing his mildly burned arm to her, he stammered, "Nights, Nights, my arm. My arm. I'm burned."

"Easy," she said, patting his hand briefly before running for the stitches and the welder—as that was about the extent of her medical abilities. "It's just a little thing."

"No, no Nights, I'm BURNED. I'm burned, you've got to fix it. You've got to—Nights, I'm burned!"

Hurrying back across the base, Nightstalker put her things down and took his hand. He twitched as if she had touched the actual burn. "Slow down, Fli-Ni," she said softly to him. "Look at it." Though he didn't want to—he knew what bad burns looked like—he did as she asked. "See? It's just a little burn. Just a little red. There's no blisters, no splotches, and it's barely even swelling. It's just a little one. No permanent damage."

He bit his lip, unable to stop how he felt a little more than confused. "But—I mean, that's not . . ."

That's not what happened to me so long ago.

There was a beat in which Nightstalker just looked at him, gauging what he was feeling before she turned around and said, "Arcee, can you get in there," and she pointed, "and wet one of those clothes with cool water and bring it back here? Don't wring it out."

"Of course."

It took those words to finally calm Nightflier. As Nightstalker welded the slashes in his armor shut, Arcee returned with the cool wet cloth, laying it over the stinging burn. It alleviated his fear. And when Nightstalker finished with his armor, she removed it and began to stitch up the cuts in his protoform.

Through all this, Nightflier couldn't help but notice that Bulkhead was patch welding Dreadwing. Maybe it was simply because Dreadwing had helped rescue Wheeljack and Ultra Magnus. But it was a show of trust since Dreadwing could have easily taken care of himself. Nightflier took heart in that.

Nightstalker finished stitching him in due time. Her small fingers were adept at that—and possibly more adept in the medical field than she was giving herself credit for. As Nightflier stood in the nearly silent silo as she moved on to help Wheeljack more, he made a mental tab to speak with Ratchet about truly considering taking her as a student. It would give her a role to fill.

But most of all . . . He couldn't help the worried frown on his face as Ultra Magnus's optics flickered and his eyelids twitched as he regained consciousness. The main patch work had been done. Ratchet's work had covered him well. Ultra Magnus's helm tilted towards Nightflier with a pained frown, exhausted and beaten.

Nightflier's throat jumped. Ultra Magnus's gaze drifted back down to where Ratchet was finishing precision welding on his knuckles. He looked at the stump of his hand blankly, almost indifferently as he raised it up just the tiniest bit to see what was left of it. A hurt and utterly spent sigh groaned from his vocalizer. He rested his hand back down.

Nightflier felt his spark twinge. He knew what it was like to be crippled. Instead, all he could say was, "Ratchet will take good care of you." He knew. The medic might be gruff, he might have his pet peeves, but he was the most excellent medic he had ever known—next to First Aid, of course. "We will support you."

His optics flickered again as he came to full consciousness, and the words out of his mouth were the last ones Nightflier could have been expecting. "Nightfall. When we spoke earlier . . . what could be greater than an army?"

Nightflier's optics softened even as he winced with Ultra Magnus when the slightest movements seemed to irritate their wounds. "Something that can never be torn apart, no matter what hardships it endures." He glanced to Nightstalker and Dreadwing respectively before his gaze swept the room with a small smile.

"Family."

"Ratchet."

It had actually been Ultra Magnus that decided he needed a new hand, no matter how limited its function may be. He argued that they could not be down a single warrior at this point, and he was willing to do his part. He had bounced back . . . seemingly better than Nightflier had accounted him for. Even so far as to press Nightfall to allow him and Wheeljack to report what the results of the mission had yielded. But now? Ratchet glanced up from his work on a rough replacement.

"What is it, Nightfall?"

His wings fluttered nervously. They were so low on supplies . . . If he hadn't healed his wings, he could have used the power of the Forge to heal him. But no, not even that. The Forge had been broken, snapped in half by the might of the Predacon. He cleared his throat a little nervously, lowering his voice so Ultra Magnus wouldn't hear their conversation and get false hopes. "I know we're low on supplies of any kind," he said quietly. "But . . . My wings."

Ratchet frowned immediately. "Need I remind you that the Forge—"

"I know," he interrupted the medic, holding up his hands in submission. "I mean my OLD wings." Ratchet blinked, already sensing exactly where he was heading with this. Nightflier nodded. "We don't have a use for them anymore. And they're pure Cybertronian cyber-matter." He gave a nervous shrug. "Cut them up, shape them into fingers . . ."

Ratchet waved a hand. "Yes, I understand, there's no need to put it in such crude terms." A small smile played at Nightflier's lips as the medic muttered to himself, a hand touching his chin as he contemplated it under his breath. Eventually, he nodded. "Yes, it is plausible, and workable. I will add it to my extensive to do list. In the meanwhile, I'll do what I can to provide him with a manageable alternative until I can manage to fashion such a complicated piece of Cybertronian biology."

Nightflier's smile softened even more. "Thanks, Ratchet." As the medic turned back to his work, Nightflier put a servo on his elbow, saying, "Don't strain yourself, all right? You get some rest too."

The medic seemed to pause, servos slowing in their work. The words were too similar to what Optimus would ceaselessly tell him. Old wounds aggravated, the medic finally cleared his vocalizer and hunched over his work more, saying brusquely, "Well, I won't. Now if you please, I'll get more done if I can focus."

The young Prime hesitated. "Ratchet . . . I mean that. Thank you. For—you know, everything you've done for my sister." When his vocalizer clotted up, he tried to discreetly clear it. "I owe you."

Ratchet's shoulders slumped with a sharp exvent. His servos still again, and he finally rasped a faint, "You are welcome," before he tried to continue his work again.

Sensing the emotion coming off the medic in waves, Nightflier put a hand on his arm again. "Ratchet? You all right?"

The CMO nodded furiously, and Nightflier was forced to leave it as is. He gave him a last passing pat before making his way to leave, stopped only by Ultra Magnus calling his name.

Ratchet bent over his work again, servos shaking too much to do anything. With a frustrated and overwhelmed sigh, Ratchet slumped down, elbows on the table, helm buried in his servos. He stared at the product of all the work he needed to get done, and the echo of Optimus's words chased their way into his spark. With an emotional scrub of his face, Ratchet left his work where it lay, heading to the berth rooms with his spark in a twist.

Nightflier walked up to Ultra Magnus's side, saying, "Yes? What is it?"

For a minute, Nightflier was confused as to why Ultra Magnus didn't say anything more. But then, he registered how tense he was, the brightness of his optics, and his strained vents. Immediately, Nightflier stepped up and grabbed his second in command's remaining hand, saying, "Easy. It'll pass."

The SIC seemed to try to say something, lips trembling before he set them flat and endured the phantom pain that seemed to crush his hand that wasn't there anymore and shoot up his arm. Nightflier waited while his hands were squeezed to an almost unbearably tight degree before the pressure lessened and Ultra Magnus began to relax again.

Finally, he asked quietly, "Was it always so bad for you?"

Nightflier gave a nervous shrug. "Yeah." His wings fluttered in the response of just remembering it. "You learn to accept it. You get better at enduring the pain."

Ultra Magnus's optics closed. "It was worse for you, wasn't it, sir? Both of your wings."

Nightflier paused. He gave a soft vent, wings dipping, and he squeezed the second in command's servo supportively. "I don't think it's fair to compare," he said quietly. "Pain is pain. And quit it with the sir."

His optics opened, and he looked towards Nightflier. "Perhaps it is unfair of me to ask, but . . . I . . ." His optics dropped, and he turned his face away again, struggling for his words. "How did . . . you manage?"

For a moment, Nightflier didn't respond. Then, he released Ultra Magnus's hand to grab one of Ratchet's white crates and push it to the side of the medical berth so he could sit next to his second in command. Once sitting comfortably, he offered his hand back to Ultra Magnus. He took it.

"I . . . can't say," he finally admitted on a breath. He shook his head, one leg jiggling restlessly in thought. "Everyone around me was a great support. I wouldn't have ever made it if not for those around me, so don't be afraid to accept emotional—or physical—support. You might have been the biggest and strongest of us, the one with the most accomplishments and stuff, but . . . Just remember to reach out to us. We all care about you. Don't be afraid to cry. I know I did. And just remember you're not alone."

Nightflier vented again, biting his bottom lip. "Besides, you're already doing a lot better than I did," he told him. "You're already trying to fix it. I mean—you're at least approaching the situation calmly and maturely unlike me."

"I am older," Ultra Magnus intoned. A tug of his lips twitched so faint Nightflier thought he had imagined it. "I've been through my fair share of the Pit. Though . . . This is my first time losing a limb. And I am lucky it is a replaceable part and does not hamper my every waking moment."

The young Prime shook his head. "We all have our own demons to face. And if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here, all right?"

Ultra Magnus nodded, and he closed his optics, settling back for a recharge. After a moment of silence, Nightflier felt his hand tighten around his. "Nightfall . . . Thank you. For being here."

His spark swelled with compassion, but he didn't say a word about the silent tears slipping down his SIC's face. Instead, he just squeezed the remaining hand even tighter. "Anytime."