Author's Note:
And the second half of this chapter! :D Loved all your wonderful reviews! ^-^ You beautiful people deserve all the cookies of the world! Hope you enjoy this chapter!
The Predacon performed a stunning barrel roll, wings flexing as it swirled with eerie grace around Dreadwing's onslaught of bullets. Nightflier's spark hit his stomach again when he saw the fire curl up in the beast's chassis, and though the servos of the dead reached to drag him down, Nightflier flung himself away, lunging for safety as the monster dive bombed them.
Dreadwing held no such reservations for backing down. Holstering his gun, he transformed in a klik and took off, his underbelly nearly skimming the Predacon's back as he swirled acrobatically to about-face the dragon that was flapping its wings, struggling to pull out of its mad charge. Unleashing a volley of gunfire on the beast, it crashed in a gangly heap, wings flicking and screeching its displeasure.
Yellow optics fixed themselves on Nightflier.
It was by reflex that Nightflier lashed his shield on, drew his short sword, and let his battle mask clamp into place as the beast charged him. He backed away several steps, processor power spiking as he desperately wondered how to combat the beast before it was right atop him, claws raised for the kill.
With a yelp, Nightflier ducked beneath the claw that could shred him in one blow and cringed back from the snapping jaws that could devour him in one bite. Pushed back by the beast, Nightflier danced on its chain, toyed with before the kill. Slamming his shield against the mouth that bit at him, the electrical charge made the Predacon hiss and rear its head up, not expecting the jolt. Taking the advantage he got, Nightflier jabbed his short sword in the softest spot he could find—the mandibles, spread on a shriek.
The dragon roared in pain, rearing its head back and retaliating by slamming its tail down. Nightflier shouted and bolted, and the massive limb struck the ground, sending snow and icy ground chunking and flying. Whirling to face his foe, Nightflier's optics flared, the familiar dose of trepidation seeping through his circuits like a plague when the Predacon's mandibles flared and flames licked up its throat.
And then, his father was there, powerful, clawed hands grabbing the animal's main, upper two mandibles and throwing his full weight against the beast. He ripped the dragon's head down and to the side, sending the jettison of flames awry, and Nightflier cried out, falling back and cowering.
The Predacon screeched. Its wings flared, nearly clipping Nightflier they expanded so wide, and it took off, dragging up Dreadwing with it. Nightflier gasped for air, chilling breaths stark against his insides. His head jerked up, watching as his father struggled with the beast up high, quickly gaining altitude. He looked back down on his blade, a fine trickle of energon rolling down the sharp edge of his blade.
This thing could be hurt. Nightflier took comfort in that thought, seizing to it in the effort to forget his fears that clouded his mind of any critical thinking. It may seem impenetrable, but everything had its weak points.
Nightflier swallowed and gritted his dentures, swearing to himself to find out what the Predacon's were. Transforming and flying up to the battle above, he drove hard as his father landed a punch that finally dislodged the beast's hold on him. Feinting to the side, Nightflier took the chance of the broad side of the dragon bearing open for the attack. Though he knew his stun guns wouldn't hurt it, Nightflier shot at it, watching its reaction to gauge the soft spots; he dotted bullets down its body, from behind its helm, the joints, the underbelly, its paws, but it all only seemed to incense it more. Banking sharply away, Nightflier tried to avoid the snapping jaws, but they clamped down around him.
He shouted more with a jarring scare than actual pain. The main, larger serrated teeth missed him by mere inches, and for once Nightflier was GLAD he was so small. Still, he felt himself lifted and thrown with powerful strength, and the world twisted wildly on its axis, sky and earth, sky and earth, black and white and black and white—
Frantically searching to control his equilibrium and stop his freefall to the ground, the second he managed to orient himself upright, Nightflier blasted his thrusters on full power. The nose of his alt mode pulled up as hard as he could, and while his descent slowed, it wasn't going to be enough. He couldn't pull up out of this one.
Wryly, he thought to himself, any landing you can walk away from is a good one, right?
Holding fast to that glitched up thought, Nightflier strained his engines as he came in screaming to the ground. Every wire and circuit inside him strained up, and he felt the head of the ground skid against his underbelly before the gravity caught him and he CRASHED, flipping and skidding and sliding over the slick surfaces of frozen snow.
He transformed as he came to a stop, groaning, voice thick with static. Though painful, he sucked in bone-chilling breaths of cold air, internal diagnostics running. Though there was plenty of surface damage, he hadn't lost anything valuable. He felt some rivulets of energon freezing against his body. He waited impatiently for his glitching optics to recalibrate, trusting his father to cover for him.
As if by the mere thought of him, he felt Dreadwing brush against his spark, asking in worry, Are you all right?
Nightflier heaved another groan, the world slowly coming back into focus. High above, he could see his father battling with the Predacon. A drop of energon hit his cheek, and he knew it wasn't his.
I'm fine, I—OW. Cybertron below me . . . I'm—I'm functional, watch yourself!
Catching his breath for a moment longer, Nightflier gritted his dentures and heaved himself to his peds. His father needed him up there. His head craned up and his optics fixated themselves on the fight, and before he transformed again, he froze, recognizing the orange glow beginning above. Dreadwing and the Predacon were locked together, his hands on the beast's mandibles again, those dangerous jaws trying their damndest to snap around and crush his helm. Instead, the fire rose, and Dreadwing yanked its head to the side again, sending them careening sickeningly to the ground, a wild jettison of flame spraying across the dark sky.
Nightflier stood, peds fused to the ground, unable to get himself to take off and help. Not with that heathenish fire there. Primus, not the fire. He squeezed his optics shut, quaking.
This is NOT Kaon, this is NOT Kaon, this is NOT KAON . . . !
He tried to forget it. He tried to forget that black stain in his past, the feel of energon staining his peds and slipping in the lifeblood of the Cybertronians dying around him, but it was so stark in his mind, tripping over severed limbs, seeing screaming mech, femmes, and sparklings tossed into the smelting pits, and the burning of the city as they razed it to the ground.
Struggling not to hyperventilate, Nightflier looked back up just in time to see Dreadwing lambasted by the Predacon's tail. The force of the blow sent the mech plummeting to the ground, limp and swirling.
Panic slashed across Nightflier's consciousness. "DAD! Dad, wake up! Wake up, wake up—"
WAKE UP!
He darted across the icy snow, bolting towards where his father's inevitable crash landing was. He didn't know why—there was no way he'd be able to catch a mech as large as himself, but by the pits of Kaon, he would try! Spark hammering in his chassis, he watched helplessly as his father smashed into the ground, hitting the earth with the force of a falling star.
"I am going to KILL him!"
Bulkhead gave an uneasy smile, wary of the femme in her enraged state. "Well, you wouldn't REALLY, Nights. You're just angry—"
"Fragging right, I'm angry!" Nightstalker threw up her arms in frustration, nearly pacing the room she was so pissed off. "That backstabbing, lying little glitching CHEAT! Oh, you can come with us Nights—I ORDER YOU BACK TO BASE. The frag does he think he is!"
Smokescreen shuffled his peds uncertainly. "Um . . . I guess he's thinking he's Prime."
"Why the Pit do I care if he's Prime!" Nightstalker snapped, getting the rookie to quail and all but duck behind Bulkhead for protection. The bigger mech held up his hands in surrender as Nightstalker pointed her finger at him. "He's just doing this because I'm his sister! That's the only reason why, and it's fragging pissing me off!"
"You are right to be angry, Nightstalker," the wise voice of Ratchet cut in, "and I can tell you exactly why he keeps leaving you at the base."
Nightstalker whirled on him, brows shooting upwards. "Why?"
Ratchet arched a brow right back at her. "You mean you honestly haven't figured it out yet?" When Nightstalker just gave him a blank look, he snorted. "He's afraid."
Nightstalker blinked at him. "Afraid?"
Her father nodded. "Yes. He's afraid of losing you."
"He's afraid of—FRAG ME FLYING. I am so going to kill him!" She threw up her hands, beginning to pace again. "He needs to stop underestimating me! I've done perfectly fine all my life without him to hold my hand every step of the way, and he needs to understand that I'm not some breakable China doll!"
Ratchet held up a hand. "Nightstalker, really. Calm down. You need to understand where he's coming from."
She whirled around on her heel, jaw dropping open to gape at him. She gave one, hurt little gasp. "I can't believe you're siding with him!"
"No, I'm not," Ratchet was quick to say, "but I DO understand why he's acting this way."
Nightstalker crossed her arms haughtily, wings snapping up challengingly. "Oh really? Fine then. Enlighten me."
Ratchet nodded, Bulkhead and Smokescreen wide-eyed spectators. "I suspect he's been traumatized by the slaughter in Kaon," he said. "As you were traumatized by seeing your brother supposedly die. He's simply terrified to lose you the way he had supposedly lost you in Kaon, and he's willing to do anything to keep you safe—including sequestering you at the base to keep you out of harm's way." Ratchet shook his head, lips pressing. "I do not condone his behavior, but you might want to confront him and talk to him about it."
After staring at him for one full beat, Nightstalker groaned, palming her face in her hands and wings sagging. "You can't be serious," she said, words muffled. A second later, they heard a door open, and Nightstalker looked over to see Fowler walking out of his office, a frown set upon his face. Her optics flickered as she frowned.
"Are you all right—"
Before she could even finish her sentence, a crash sounded in the base, and the telltale whir of Laserbeak filled the air. Nightstalker gaped and swore.
"Fragging tinfoil turkey!"
Yelping and ducking away as the offending bird swooped in, it open fired, sending the bots scattering to avoid damage. It circled around, and Nightstalker lifted her head just in time to see quick-placed shots taking out the bondages strapping Soundwave down.
Her gaze flattened. "On no you don't, you origami trash—"
Bolting across the room, Smokescreen bought a little time by clipping Laserbeak's wing, but ultimately, the bird made its way back to Soundwave before Nightstalker's peds could. She skidded to an abrupt halt in front of Soundwave just as Laserbeak latched to his chassis and his visor flicked on.
"SCRAP—!"
A deceptively powerful servo grabbed her and flung her backwards. Nightstalker crashed back into the wall beneath the gangways, and shook the stars free of her head. Looking up, she saw that Soundwave had already used his creepy tentacles to down both Smokescreen and Bulkhead, electrical charges crackling from the tips as he knocked Agent Fowler down—
Primus bless that man, she always adored his tenaciousness.
Instead, she saw Ratchet cornered. And she could see the fire spitting from his optics, but ultimately, it was fear. He was outmatched, and he knew it. They all knew it. And there wasn't a damn thing Nightstalker could do as she bolted across the room, reaching for her whips that weren't there.
Ratchet's optics shifted to her as Soundwave raised his tentacles, and one word blazed in his optics:
RUN.
Soundwave's tentacles planted themselves on his chassis, sending the high voltages coursing through the medic's systems, forcing a system's shutdown almost immediately. Doing any such thing BUT leaving him, she instead jumped ferociously on Soundwave's back, grabbing her one sole blade and raising it to stab into whatever part of him she could.
"Stay away from my father!"
The words she screamed out caused Soundwave's tentacles to quickly whip around and knock the blade from her hand. It skidded across the floor and out of reach. Digging her claws under his plating, she fingered soft protoform, and was about to pump as much lava into the sensitive spot when an arm slammed down on her, forcing her to the floor. She grunted heavily and found herself pinned by a ped. Soundwave's calculating visor stared down at her.
Played back to her in her own voice was, "Stay away from my father!" and the words skipped, replaying again, "father!"
Her optics widened in horror.
She was no one's bribery.
She was no one's blackmail.
She wasn't going to be used for extortion—
Electrical voltage shocked through her systems until she couldn't keep herself online anymore.
Nightflier raced to where Dreadwing had fallen.
"Dad! DAD!"
Skidding to his side, Nightflier dropped to a knee and shook his shoulder, managing to get him to stir groggily, with a low groan. "Dad, wake up—!"
The screech of the Predacon closing in made Nightflier dart back out and between the beast and his father. He drew his blade, shield crackling with electrical energy as he shivered in the cold—though, from fear, not the cold. And his fear only grew worse, circuits chilling as he saw with clarity the Predacon TRANSFORM, landing on the same peds of the mech that had so easily decimated him and his father before.
He wanted to believe that it had never happened. He wanted to believe that it couldn't be true, but it was, and it always would be.
In fact, the mech barely glanced at Nightflier, more focused on Dreadwing as he always was. The traitor to the Decepticon cause; he merely branded small Nightflier as weak, easy prey compared to the main course. Nightflier found himself taking offense at the mech's disregard of him.
"It took a cataclysm to extinguish Cybertron's original Predacon inhabitants," the Predacon said with prideful superiority. He hit his chassis. "You never stood a chance against me, TRAITOR." For once, those yellow optics fixated on the small mech, like a teacup puppy barking up a Rottweiler's tree. Amusement shone. "PRIME."
His left arm transformed, wielding a gun of a fashion Nightflier didn't recognize. "In fact, the time has come for YOUR extinction!"
But in that one glance at that gun, Nightflier knew it couldn't possibly be the make of a fusion cannon. His shield was powerful—it was able to withstand any blaster, including things as powerful as ion cannons. Only things as heavy hitting as bombs, missiles, and fusion cannons could make it short out, and this mech wielded none of those.
So when he shot, Nightflier deflected the bullet back at him. It ricocheted back to the Predacon, and he shouted and snarled when Nightflier managed to get the drop on him. Rushing forward and going for the knees that were roughly optic level with him, Nightflier slammed his shield against him and jabbed his short sword down, managing to dig his small weapon into a crack in the mech's armor.
The mech roared, vocalizer carrying the underlying screech of the beast he transformed into. A large hand grabbed him, and Nightflier felt himself chucked and thrown like a football. He soared for a second or two, and then, he found himself crashing and skidding across the ground again. He lifted his helm, seeing stars, and then, he gaped.
He had NOT just been thrown that far!
Dreadwing was up again, deep in a fistfight with the mech, and clearly he had managed to get the drop on him by the way he was pushing the attack on a defending foe. Nightflier transformed into his jet mode, hurrying his way back to them.
The Predacon backhanded his father just as Nightflier transformed, slamming his shield down on top of his head as he landed. He whirled around to face him, felt his arm grabbed, and he was slung back to the ground. He lost his breath at the force of which he impacted with the hard, unforgiving ice, and he groaned tightly as he struggled back up to his peds. The Predacon snarled in pain again, for what, Nightflier couldn't see as his optics recalibrated, but he heard his father's commanding voice demand, "Stand down, Predacon!"
"I am PREDAKING!" the mech growled back, anger lacing his voice as he made his name clear to them. "And I will NEVER bow to your kind!"
Then, as the mech charged his father, Nightflier bolted to his peds, following, and he could only gape as Predaking jumped up, KICKED Dreadwing square in the face, transformed while flipping backwards, and landed on his feet like a goddamn cat.
It was almost enough to make him break his stride, especially when his father crashed back, completely unconscious. But it was now or never, and this had to work.
It's no different than Minitron, no different from Minitron—!
Sheathing his blade and instead grabbing Nightstalker's whips, Nightflier used the thrusters in his peds to kick off high from the ground, and he lashed out the whips. They caught on either side of Predaking's mouth, cutting deep into the mandibles, and Nightflier landed right on top of the beast's back.
At the last second, Nightflier suddenly thought this was a bad idea.
Predaking screeched and flung his head immediately, turning himself into a wildly bucking beast. Nightflier tightened his legs on his neck, refusing to get unseated, and he held on for dear life as his wings spread, and he took off with a jarring leap.
Gritting his dentures, Nightflier turned the whips on, and electricity coursed through them. The Predacon screeched, thrashing blindly midair at the pain that centered itself on the soft edges of his mouth. Nightflier snarled, pulling against him as hard as he could, letting the caught edges cut deeper into his mandibles. Predaking roared, and Nightflier felt the powerful body beneath him seize and thrash, fighting against him, quickly dropping and losing his altitude.
Heat gathered abruptly between his legs. For one second, a slash of hysteria colored Nightflier's spark, and he desperately wanted to let go, but he couldn't. Not now that he had him!
Fire ignited from the dragon's jaws, and Nightflier cried out in terror, the heat too close, too centered, and too hot. Yanking the whips hard, the sudden pain caught Predaking off guard, and they went hurting out of the sky, twisting and spiraling out of control. They crashed through the top of the human outpost, landing in a heap in the middle of the battlefield and making quite the spectacle of themselves.
Over Predaking's screeching roars of hatred, Nightflier heard Bumblebee's voice squealing out, *Nightflier! What are you DOING?*
Pit if he knew what he was doing! If he was a beast, he could tame him! Fighting against the great dragon, Nightflier ignited the thrusters in his peds, searing deep scores of burns into his flanks. Predaking screeched, wings flapping and electricity beginning to glitch his optics from shocking his mouth for so long.
"Stop!" Nightflier snapped down at him. Filled with fury and fear, he lashed the whips tighter, drawing a shrieking whine from the Predacon. "Submit already! You're MINE!"
For a brief second, Nightflier thought he had him. He lowered his head, growling dangerously, but ceased his struggling. But then, he felt Predaking's metal shift, warping and transforming beneath him, and his optics popped as his neck changed from a beast until his head stood erect between his legs in a sort of twisted piggyback ride.
Before Nightflier could figure out what to do next, a large, clawed hand grabbed him. Whipped off his back, Nightflier felt himself slammed cruelly into the ground, and he coughed, choking on energon backing up in his systems. That hand yanked him back up, and he was held right before the enraged beast's face, hellfire raging in those cursed yellow optics. Jagged denta bared with a growl, and though static warped his every word, they came out with terrifying, stunning clarity:
"I CANNOT BE TAMED!"
A cold chill settled in Nightflier's spark, and he felt himself wound up and throw with unparalleled strength, like a tiny chew toy. He slammed into a wall, the wall cracking, nearly shattering beneath the force of which he struck it, and he spasmed slightly on the ground, a wing having caught the brunt of the blow. Wildly, having lost Nightstalker's whips, he took his shield and sword again.
Nightflier looked up just in time to see the fire churning deep in the depths of Predaking's throat. This time, it was too much. The fear torturing him rose up, crashing down, and he lost his nerve—his father was unconscious, completely at the mercy of the beast; no one was there to help him or support him; and that fire, that ungodly, primal fire that infected his processor like a pestilence until the flames burned cold fear into him. Arcee's shrill shriek cut the air.
"NIGHTFLIER!"
It rose and jettisoned from the maw of the beast. Violent tremors shook up and down his body, and Nightflier felt every sense of logic flee his mind. Terror swallowed him into the dark abyss and horrific screams raked across his audios. Hot energon bloodied beneath his peds, and dying servos dragged him into oblivion.
He screamed.
The force of the flames jettisoning into him sent him flying back. An agonized, terrified scream cracked from his vocalizer, white hot agony scorching across his body. The blast flung him deep into the human building, and he crashed into the weakened wall. The fire never ended. The conflagration spread, catching the building, sending the beams falling, the ceiling crumbling, chaos around him. Nightflier screamed endlessly, nearly thrashing in unadulterated panic as he stumbled around blindly, gossamer flames dancing in his optics everywhere he turned.
Pain overwhelmed him. His armor was melting, fusing to his protoform, hotter than melted wax. The bestial roar of the fire crackled and spat and growled like a feral animal. It tore at him, bringing him to his knees. His gasps swallowed burning flames, sucking in raining sparks. His lips stretched past his dentures, and he dropped his sword, suffering in his hell. His audio receptors blazed in a high-pitched keen as the audio input maxed out; his voice cracked and filled with static. He fell silent, collapsing to the ground, despairing and unable to prevail.
Vaguely, he wondered if this was what dying felt like. It was pure fire, pure agony tearing through every inch of his body. The bitter thought that he as the newest Prime had only managed to last a few months would be the most shameful track record of any Prime that had ever lived. He dived into that despairing thought, letting it sweep his ashes away.
Then, he realized it—he was still alive. The stream of flames had stopped, though the building still burned around him. His optics weakly flickered back online, and dancing orange ropes of light performed before his optics. His hearing slowly returned. The pain was never-ceasing. It consumed him as the building burned around him in a staged death.
Death.
Deep inside his chassis, like a faint whisper in darkness, Nightflier felt it. The Primes. Every Prime, the original Thirteen, the ones chosen after them, Zeta, Sentinel, and Optimus. Wordless urgings for him to get up. He could not give up at this point. He had a duty. His body was not dead.
Dead.
The word rang a faint bell in his processor. The Matrix flickered in his chassis, glowing madly inside even brighter than the flames that raged around him. The cost of being a Prime—the death of himself.
Of course. The Primes had not meant that he, physically, would die—they meant his spirit. His personality. His freedom. His soul. The ultimate sacrifice.
With a rather bitter epiphany, Nightflier realized what he was in for as the next Prime. They weren't kidding when they had said it was a heavy burden few could carry. As Prime, he was expected to walk away from things like this and instill belief and determination in his troops. HIS troops. He was forced to order them, see them more as soldiers instead of the friends he had made. The mentor, the brother, the lover. He now lived, worked, and spoke for the sake of others and was forced to forgo all his personal expression and attachments for the sake of his title. His value as a person no longer rested on WHO he was, but rather WHAT he was.
A despairing groan fell from his lips. The hellfire raged around him, taunting him and burning him, scorching as consuming fires. A heavy beam had fallen on his back, halfway crushing his formerly handicapped wing again and the weight pressed on his shoulders, physically and spiritually.
He didn't want social isolation from his friends, his family. He couldn't give that up. His personal desires were too strong. That kind of pain and sacrifice was too much to ask of anyone.
Yet, as Nightflier trembled on the ground hot as coals, he knew without a doubt that he could not give up. Yes, it was unfair—it was deplorable to strip a person like this. The Primes had said it themselves. They knew the costs, they sympathized with him, and yet, YET—! They all claimed they would do it all over again. They would not pass the title of Prime to another because they knew so well the horror of the path of a hero. They were willing to shoulder the burden of living as a Prime so that no one else had to, so that no one else would have their inner being torn out for the sake of others.
A stroke of defiance lit in Nightflier.
What if it doesn't have to be that way?
He could practically feel the audible silence of the Primes he could only faintly commune with. He lifted his head, staring out into the flames burning around him.
I understand. I understand this death . . . why it must be . . . And I am resigned to that. What I don't understand is why I cannot show personal feelings.
They all understood his unwillingness—they had gone through it too. But as a commander, loving and caring would make him pick favorites—it would make him reluctant to send them into battle. They had seen him make that mistake one too many times already, and Nightflier remembered it too.
I cannot deny my mistakes. But I do not have to become nothing but a sparkless figurehead for them.
Shock. It poured over the communal line of the Matrix of Leadership, and Nightflier ignored their protests, their words of worry. One Prime was silent out of them all, and Nightflier shared his exploded tomb of flames with him.
Just because none of you were able to balance the responsibility of Prime with your personal lives does not mean I am not able to. Sure, yeah, I know I will generally be more reserved, but when I am alone with my sister? No. I will love her and cherish her as I always have. My bond with my father reverberates through my spark, and I will NOT turn my back on that. I will not break them like that ever again.
And when I am with Arcee . . . I cannot deny my passions for her. I might fall in love with her if I'm not careful. And that is a treasure worth taking the risks. Optimus, just because you tried and failed with Elita One does not mean I will do the same with Arcee.
Agony poured from the other side of the Matrix.
I know. And if I do make a mistake in my judgment, so be it. We all make mistakes, something the rest of you Primes can't seem to understand.
He couldn't afford to make mistakes.
I know that too. But I will deal with my mistakes. There is no way to avoid them, so I will overcome that when the time comes. But I refuse to give up my very identity.
Nightflier gained strength as he argued with the ancient Primes that disapproved of his choice, all but one. His hands slapped to the ground, and with a grit of his teeth and a deep-set groan, Nightflier pushed, arching his back to get the heavy beam off of him. It didn't budge. Fear flared up among his determination.
It's time the lineage of the Primes changed. No longer are we going to be self-righteous hypocrites that deny ourselves a sentient life. I will not be dictated by the Matrix—it is a vessel of knowledge and life, nothing more. It cannot make my decisions for me, and I will not allow it to make decisions for me—and I won't allow any of you to make my decisions for me. Yes, trusted confidants, but my master? Never.
With a cry, Nightflier bucked, straining against the beam that pinned him. It was too heavy! It was too heavy, he couldn't do this alone! The roof burned the sky above him and collapsed around him. Through the fire, he saw the gossamer silhouette of a figure coming his way.
His panicking spark lifted—Ultra Magnus.
I am a new beginning. Nightfall Prime. I do not walk in the sun that my predecessors did because I am a rebel. I see the shadows of darkness you all passed, and I walk in your shadows to learn from your mistakes to never make the same ones.
His SIC came to his side, squatting and grabbing the edge of the burning beam. With a heavy grunt and groan, Ultra Magnus hefted, lifting the weight from his shoulders, refusing to let his Prime die, keeping his solemn promise: As long as I am around, I will not let you die, Nightfall. And he wasn't. He was here with him in this place, providing his support and strength again, faithful to the end. His bum servo gleamed, shining bright as it collected heat. Nightflier drew upon his strength, forcing himself to slip from beneath the beam when there was enough room.
I will learn to command with the skill Zeta had. I will open my eyes to the corruption around me, as Sentinel did. I will learn the time where compassion is not enough, like Optimus. And I will remember the original Thirteen, blessed by Primus, and realize that I too am blessed by Primus and am the vessel for his will.
His hand closed around his sword. The fires crackled and snapped at him, a blazing hell, and smoke tried to trick his optics and it choked his systems.. The flames licked over his body, but he rose with Ultra Magnus's help. Though fear crippled his will, Nightflier locked his knees, refusing to let his SIC carry him, though he did brace himself against his arm—the one with his crippled servo—his right hand, determination welling up inside like a great storm. The heat burned away his past, his present, his future. The old he was dead and gone—the name Nightflier was no longer his. It was only Nightfall Prime.
Today is a new day. In the same way in which Optimus's physical body died, consumed by flame, so in the same way I have died. I am buried with him. And from the ashes of his grave I am reborn. This is the death of me—
I am Nightfall Prime.
With the last sparks flying and burning into his frame, Nightfall stepped from the wreckage with Ultra Magnus to see the sight of the battlefield in complete ruins. Dead Vehicons scattered the floors, and the item the Decepticons had been there to collect was gone. Predaking and Shockwave were nowhere to be found. And the Autobots, a little battered, absolutely gaped in their direction.
He didn't realize the sight they must have made. His armor was shining brightly, blazing with heat as he strode with deadly purpose from his tomb of flames. Even Ultra Magnus glowed. The blue electricity of his shield crackled and fizzled, nearly cutting out, and his sword glowed like a beacon of light. His cold, cobalt optics set forward resolutely, glaring out with hellish determination, and his wings flared intimidating. For once, his size was of no fault to his intimidation. The wrath of a Prime rose up in him. He cast off his fear. His childish ways shattered like glass. He bared his denta, lips curling in disdain as he rose from the ashes a different mech from before.
"They got away," Nightfall managed to crack out through the static clouding his vocalizer.
The cold air of the pole juxtaposed sharply against the heat of the fire behind him. Finally, though Wheeljack, Arcee, Cliffjumper, and Bumblebee all held the same exact expression, it was Wheeljack that finally said offhandedly, "Scrap, we thought you were a goner."
Nightfall's wings twitched. Pain scoured every inch of his frame, and he knew they were burns. He could feel it. By the way his protoform pulled at his chassis and stomach, where the brunt of the flames had hit him, he knew his armor was melded to his protoform. It was going to have to be cut free. Ratchet would be furious.
"I'm all right," he said, and he could hear a difference in his voice that had nothing to do with the glitching fizz. Against his spark, he felt his father brush against him.
You are . . . different. What happened?
He sounded strained. In pain. And confused. A second later, Nightfall heard his engines low in the sky, and he looked up to watch him come and land from the massive hole left in the roof. Predaking had clawed through his shoulder armor, and energon welled up from the slashes, the blue liquid freezing against his armor. His blue optics flared in concern over his physical wellbeing, but he pressed against his spark again, encasing him in protection even though Nightfall was sure he could stand on his own now.
Your spirit . . . is strong.
If he wasn't mistaken, Dreadwing's words were slightly in awe of him. The words of Primus echoed in Nightfall's processor. He closed his optics, but the edge of his mouth twitched up in an accepting smile as he responded,
It cannot be broken.
Little did he know, his spirit was going to be tested immediately. Tiredly, he lifted his arm with a wince, touching his comm. link and saying, "Ratchet, we could really use a bridge back to base. And try to keep my sister from attacking me; I'm in no shape to take another scratch."
Wings tipping down in exhaustion, Nightfall leaned more against Ultra Magnus, almost unable to keep his peds. "Thank you," he rasped to the mech he owed his life to.
The clawed hand tightened around his forearm. "You are welcome." There was a pause. "Sir, please allow me to carry you. You are in no condition to keep pushing yourself."
"I've got it, Magnus," he argued back weakly. Then, noticing the bridge still had not come, was prompted to call again, "Ratchet, do you read me?" Was his comm. link melted in the fire?
But no, he received back a dazed, "Nightfall?" from Bulkhead.
His brows cinched. "Everything all right, Bulk? Ratchet hit you too hard with a wrench and storm off?" There was a long pause. "Bulk? What's wrong. Where's Ratchet."
An even longer pause. "He's . . . He's gone!"
Nightfall froze. That wasn't a, "he's gone out to get an uncommon wax job" that was a "he's gone, and the Pit just froze over."
The young Prime straightened a fraction, wincing with the effort as he demanded, "Bulkhead, what happened? What's going on?"
The next pause was too long for his liking. The longest yet. He heard a nervous clearing of a throat, and finally, Smokescreen managed, "He . . . He's not the only one missing, Nightfall."
A chill settled in his stomach that had nothing to do with the cold winds of the pole. "Soundwave?" he cracked out.
Silence. His wings fanned, not daring to breathe around the terror in his throat as his greatest fears were confirmed.
"Nightstalker's gone too."
What have I done?
"Bridge us back. Now."