Another week, another chapter everybody.

Who's ready for a roller coaster of emotion this chapter, huh? :D

It might move a little fast, but that's because I tried fitting in a whole lot of shiz for you guys.

So be happy :)

Anywho, thanks for returning everyone, summer is hot, and I love you all.

Enjoy!

Of The Spark And Heart

Part 2

Chapter 72

Stratis sat down on the berth, her servo lifting to lay gently on the helm of her resting charge. Fera did not stir at the contact, but rather leaned into it with a whimsical sigh. It had been awhile since her falling under in Solas' arms, actually two joors at least. However, he hadn't minded, as she needed the recharge to repair her physically, and psychologically, damaged being. He himself promised to recharge beside her so they may both be left alone in peace for once in this past orn. Duty laughed at that idea as if it were a joke.

"Why do you need me to watch over her?" the black spy questioned, digits trailing along the contours of Fera's white and black, delicate helm. She didn't sound irritated, simply vexed.

Solas clenched and unclenched his servos while he stood still by the door. He had to fight back the urge to swat Stratis' servo away, as he hadn't quite gotten over his anxiety at someone touching Fera yet. For the past orn, all contact had been violent. "I'm going to see Optimus," he answered tautly, unable to hide his edginess.

"And for what, I may ask?"

"There has been a new development in Decepticon ranks that I believe our Primes have need knowledge of," Solas relayed, his optics drifting to the keypad by his side. He entered in the code to open the space and he delayed in the doorframe, taking another antsy look at his fembot resting nicely on his berth. She was curled up, with arms tucked under her helm and legs bent to her aft, and a content atmosphere to her features. He wasn't sure if he was able to leave her alone. After all, last time he tried trusting a newer member to these ranks, they betrayed the Autobot faction and got one of his comrades killed.

Stratis scoffed, catching his attention again. "I'm not going to strangle her while you're gone," she intoned offendedly. Solas had neglected to remember how observant she was. "Don't you recall what we've been through? Why would I do what I did only to become a traitor like Titanios?"

"I don't know," Solas admitted, a little embarrassed at himself. "It's merely the circuits getting to me. My trust has always been a bit faulty." He paused, servo stalled on the wall. His helm turned on his neck to glance over his shoulderbolt at the two fembots. "Take care of her." As if he were unsure of the very fembot whom had watched over his charge while he was in a coma, he still remained. Stratis continued to rub Fera's helm without notice of his anxiety. With every stroke, the small attachments to Fera's helm clicked in a comfort that Solas had failed to grant her. A grin crossed her warm faceplates. It shattered his spark.

Stratis lifted her faceplates to the Guardian, expression unreadable. "Of course," she murmured. A fire of determination was in her optics. The river of sympathy was in her words.

A tiny figure, smaller than Fera, or even a human, appearing from behind Stratis. A spark hissed from the strands of wiry strings on Brain's cranial unit as he sat on the edge of the berth, Stratis on one side and Wheelie popping up on the other. Wheelie jerked, lifting an arm to protect himself from the tiny sprinkle of fire. When had they gotten here? Stratis batted the two away from Fera's crest so the sparks wouldn't hit her, and the two minibots left to the end of the berth, grumbling and moping, before plopping down onto their afts. While they shoved each other for space, Solas' mandible tightened.

"Make sure they don't disturb her," Solas said, jabbing a digit at the two mechs.

Wheelie and Brains looked up. Wheelie's helm then reared in mock offense. "Who, us?" he stated, a servo on his chassis.

Solas snorted at them, a warning clear in the rumble of his vocal capacitor. Stratis waved off Sol and glared at the minibots. "I will watch them. She will be safe in my presence, Solas Kaon."

Solas left here as her words smoothed over his worries, and the knowledge crossed him that it would do him -and Fera- no good to remain here. Stratis would be a good caretaker while he was absent. That didn't completely settle him when he left his charge behind, though. It made his spark patter and his tanks churn to envision the hundreds of things that could happen while he was gone. Brains and Wheelie were the center of most of those.

However Solas choked down his paranoia and kept walking, numbly, toward the inevitable meeting with his Prime. He'd been called there not long after Fera's transfer, and had been full of a tense sense of somberness that Solas had not appreciated after two or so groons of being held hostage on an enemy ship. Tortured, his processor breached, and his charge very nearly taken before his very optics, Solas was not up to further seriousness at the click.

The mech traveled down the halls in a concentrated silence. An arm was slung around his midsection, as his wounds were repairing themselves agonizingly slow without the aid of a medic. Solas wasn't quite sure why he was avoiding Ratchet this long. After all, the only thing the 'Hatchet could do for him was patch him up and knock him on the helm with a wrench for being stupid and reckless. Other than that there was nothing to fear. It was Optimus Prime who held the power to do what he wished to the mech. Then why was he hesitating?

Was he scared? Had Solas Kaon, former gladiator of the Pits of Kaon, and ex-Decepticon turned Autobot, finally succumbed to being scared of a medic? It had taken long enough if this was the case. And still, Sol couldn't quite pinpoint the reason behind his anticipation. Was it the needles? Or the scalpel? Or the microscorcher? Did it all remind him of his torturous terms with Decepticons on both Cybertron and Earth? Whatever it was, Solas was avoiding it. Which was absolutely, fragging stupid.

Humans milled on by as they did every other kalon. There was no attack for them to be concern with, and the sole worry they could have in their tiny little brains would be bandaging a paper cut an analyst might have gotten while on the clock. Soldiers whom marched by might have either ignored him completely, or gave a greeting in his direction. Whether that be by a nod, or a short comment, Solas returned each respectfully. Whatever he had been through, these men and women had been through Pit too. It was in their right to deserve an acknowledgement.

Solas patted his side, passing over a welding there that he'd completely forgotten existed. It seemed so long ago now, when he had gotten it. Merely a groon of knowing Fera, and he'd nearly deadsparked on the pavement of an abandoned highway, his side crusted in hardening plasma. The substance had been so hot that it had melted the blacktop, and shortly after, Solas' jagged stab wound. Ratchet had commended his quick actions, however, he'd warned of the immense scarring that would come after. Seemed he was right about it. Like everything else.

A sigh escaped the weary warrior as he came to pass the intersection that would lead to the east and west wings. Further down would be the Autobot-deemed sector of the south wing. Solas knew Ratchet's medbay would be there, and he had to keep himself from walking there instead of Optimus' office. I'll visit him afterwards, he decided determinedly, relinquishing to the voice eating at him to see the fragging medic already. Fera would tell him the same thing.

Sol eventually did reach the office of the mech Prime. That was, after bumping into Red Alert, who was mumbling to himself about a systems of security cameras on the fritz; Rainwing, who was too busy adjusting her bracer to notice him coming, and almost knocking him over in the process; and a personal quarters that Solas had sworn had been Ultra Magnus', with blue light and strange noises coming from the crack beneath the door. The Commander wasn't really someone Solas saw devoting himself to any fembot. Especially so loudly. Apparently Sol hadn't been the only mech Earth had changed.

By the time Solas reached the short corridor that would bring him to the room, he was still cringing. Commander Magnus was as old as Optimus Prime. To envision the ancient warrior...no, no, processing that would be more torture than what the Decepticons had done to him.

Solas removed his servo from his side and knocked on the office door, sending a comlink message to his leader as well. Not a nanoclick later, and barely having sent the message, the door to the Prime's office swept aside. Behind it was the profile of Rodimus, the fiery red, yellow, and orange mech who had once been a Prime himself. His expression was solemn and his posture was stiff. The playful and cocky mech whom Solas had known forever ago on Cybertron was all but gone. There was no more of Hot Rod in those optics. The servo on the door was curled into a fist, his other laying on the frame. Air that wafted from his vents was bitter and cold.

"Solas, thank you for coming," he greeted, bowing his helm and stepping aside.

Sol moved past Rodimus, hesitantly coming into a space he felt utter claustrophobia from. He'd rather be outside than in the walls of the base, however it seemed that this room in particular captured his discomfort best of all. "I hadn't a choice," Solas relayed as he swept his gaze around to find Optimus Prime by his desk, absent processor caught in the image of a holomap projected from the dash. His digits were on his chin, the other servo cupping his elbowjoint. "Optimus Prime requested me himself."

"Actually, it was not solely Optimus' hail that brought you here," another voice commented from the shadows. Solas turned his helm to see Ratchet emerging from the side of the room that Solas had failed to notice. The medic was frowning harder than usual at the sight of his most stubborn patient. "This was the only way it appeared, that I would get you the medical attention you properly needed. You cannot give excuses at this point Sol."

Rodimus closed the door with a definite shut, further setting the CMO's declaration into steel. Optimus turned, optics wide with interest when he heard his two subordinates speaking and the slam of the entrance. His arms fell to his sides and he pivoted on his heelpeds to properly face his company. When he witnessed Solas standing there, arms wrapped defiantly around his chassis, his optics buzzed in sympathy. "Hello, Solas."

If there was one mech who Earth may have changed the most, it was Optimus Prime.

"Prime," Solas greeted. This was the first instance he had spoken directly with the mech one on one since returning from the Nemesis mission. "I hadn't believed you to be one to lure your warriors into a false meeting like this."

Optimus stepped up, bringing with him a seat that was usually reserved for him and him alone. He set it down in the middle of the room, his servos on the backrest, and the glow of the monitors that lined the walls sending a gleam off the metallic surface. He tapped the chair once and stepped away, letting Sol have his space. "It was necessary for your better good, my friend."

Optics darting from mech to chair, Solas took a few steps forward. Until his toelinks brushed along the legs of the chair, he did not stop. His sights trained downward on the seat, unable to but stare. His limbs locked and he swore he could sense the heaviness of shackles on his wrists. Artificial wind from the vents overhelm dripped off his frigid frame in trails of phantom energon. His spark shuddered. "I would rather stand-"

"I need you to sit," Ratchet interrupted, already aware of Solas' unease. "The procedures I need to do requires as much."

Could any 'Bot blame him for wanting to be on his peds, when he had been on his aft for the past orn? Caught up in chains and beaten, Solas dreaded lying his frame down for an instant. Unless, of course, Fera was there, locked in his arms rather than in cuffs, her venting bringing a warmth to him that their cell always drained.

The warrior, being the proud one he was, slowly moved around and lowered himself down onto the large chair. Made for Optimus, it was no surprise when Solas found space to spare when he sat. His quivering body settled back into the rest, his venting fevered. He shuttered his optics a few times, trying to control himself. When he did relax some, he nodded to Ratchet, who was respectfully watching from a distance for a sign of permission.

It was with professionalism and concern that Ratchet came to the warrior. He went to work immediately, finding the proper tools to clean out and address the wounds Solas bore. One of the targets of the mech was Solas' ankle strut, which had apparently been damaged after his landing from leaping off the Nemesis. Along with that, both kneebolts were damaged, and his left hipbolt socket was stripped. Cracks were in the third and fifth columns of his spinal support, and a fine dent had come up in his neck. Exposed cuts dangerously close to infection remained under nooks of his armor. The mechanisms making up the hydraulics of his systems whined with a pain that Sol was oddly unaware of. All that bothered him was an utter numbness.

Ratchet announced after his fifth serious find that Solas would have to be put under surgery to correct all the major injuries in his frame. Sending a scalding glare upwards, Ratchet collected a few temp plating panels and began patching the more gaping lacerations. "You should be deadspark," he scolded in his low, gruff way.

"It wouldn't be the first time."

Rodimus snorted behind Ratchet and the medic huffed in indignation. "The last time, you ended up in a coma," he stated, straightening to catch Solas' optic. "Why you're not at least curled up in a ball, screaming at the top of your vents is beyond me. This should be excruciating."

"I'm odd that way," Solas responded, shifting on the seat when Ratchet didn't break their optic contact. The CMO studied him for a sparkbeat longer before shaking his helm. He didn't say a word however as he bent back over to prod at Solas' kneebolt, which was open to the airs. From between the mech's digits, Solas could see the surface of the pivotjoint, strained and worn. How long ago had he changed it? Since Cybertron? Longer? It wasn't his initial concern at the moment.

Light bounced from the inside of Solas' kneebolt, causing him to feel exposed and vulnerable. He curled his digits around the lip of the chair on either side of him to keep calm. The way the dust and air touched his innards was disturbing. This was apart of him, being left open for anything to happen to it. Ratchet quietly did his job, using no sedatives as he examined the extent of the damage. His optics would occasionally flicker up, as if waiting for a reaction to his testing.

Solas let his helm sit against the backrest and let out a long cycle of serene, familiar air. It smelled like Autobots here - warm, metallic, and electric. It was something far different from that of a human's, which could range from stricken and foul, to sweet and sensual. Fera had been in the ranges between the sparks that danced on the laces of a punch, to the gentle breezes of the meadows, with their unimaginably fragile flowers permeating the atmosphere with a scent of cinnamon or clove.

These visions helped soothe Solas as he waited patiently for someone, anyone, to speak and break the immeasurable silence. How nice it was to remember the old kalons, when Fera had still been human and everything had been simpler. Yet, 'simpler' had a different meaning then. Perhaps before she had known of the Stone and the Decepticons hadn't known she was a Keeper.

Solas allowed his helm to bow forward onto his chassis so he could watch Ratchet. The mech had closed the protective cuff of the pivotjoint, and was now repairing the line in Solas' hipbolt that had apparently been pinched. He felt nothing.

"Are you going to let him finish before you strip me of my Guardianship?" he asked blankly, gaze shifting from medic to Prime.

This question had been burning at Solas' core for kalons now. Not a groon off the Nemesis, and he already was certain that this circumstance was in his near future. It was one of the reasons he'd been avoiding Optimus and Rethalia. He was terrified to see the answer on their noble faceplates. If Optimus was cruel, he would kick Solas out of the Autobots entirely to become a Neutral or outcast. However, the Prime was not cruel. At least, not in the way as many believed he was. If this were a vision of perfection, Optimus would excuse everything Solas slipped up on, and allow him to go on with his normal ways. Still, this was no vision of perfection either. It was life.

Ratchet paused for the briefest moment, his digits lifting and his faceplates hardening. His optics traveled in the same direction as Solas' toward the mech Prime standing vigilantly at the door. Rodimus was the image of a trained soldier beside him, showing little to no emotion on his features while he waited his turn to speak. The temperature had dropped a few notches with the attitude between the four mechs, with the pressure inside becoming demanding and dark. Heated air cycled inside of Solas, and released an iced chill from within him. His spark was beating at a thousand miles a click, yet he showed no sign of it through his stoic faceplates.

He leaned onto his elbowjoints, his servos handing between his kneebolts. He kept a steady contact with his leader, unable, and unwilling, to break it. "I won't fight you in your decision. What I did was inexcusable and calls for immediate decommissioning. I put our priority in danger, and thus, nearly cost us this war." He stopped, helm dropping with a sigh. He continued on after lifting it again, "It was my faulty judgment and blind desperation to retrieve Punch that drove me to allow Fera to accompany me to the mission sight. I should never have done it, and I sincerely apologize for my mistake."

"What would you do if I removed you from your position as Guardian, Solas Kaon?" Optimus inquired abruptly, stepping up a pace or two. Rodimus remained behind, his arms crossing. "If I were to strip you of your privilege as our Keeper's Guardian?"

Solas sat back, unsure of how to answer at first. After only being on Earth an orn before meeting Fera, he wasn't sure if he knew anything but the female. She had been with him for a decacycle at this point. That long of knowing her put ease in his consciousness that he would be lost without the task of protecting Fera Rosalie Lennox. Without her, where would he be? Scouting unfamiliar mountain ranges with Hound and Bumblebee? Dealing with the analytical division with Red Alert, Bluestring, and Prowl? Manning the front lines with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker? The possibilities were endless.

And unfamiliar.

The truth was, that this mech had absolutely nothing to fall back on if he wasn't a Guardian. Sure, he was a warrior, and could fight as any other mech or fembot did. However that was because this was war, and that was how he was expected to behave. Outside of battle, he would be left without a single thing to keep him on his peds. With Fera, he was driving the highways at incredible speeds, defending a true cause, or simply being useful. He couldn't do that without a charge to protect. It was sadly all he knew now. It had become something he belonged to - something he'd never had before Earth. Before Fera.

Solas swallowed his glossa and wrung his right bracer with his left servo. His answer was on his glossa, however, his tight lip plates and clogged vocal capacitor would not let the churning words pass. They were trapped in his throat, without a way out.

Optimus noted his silence with a nod and settled wise optics on him that were distant from the welcoming, cordial friend that Solas knew. "It is your occupation Solas," he said, blue optics humming. "I merely wish to hear your verdict on your punishment. I trust you Sol, and if you believed yourself incapable of providing Fera the protection she needs, then I will see to it that you are removed from your position and placed in another more suiting for you."

Prime was giving him the decision of his fate? What kind of joke was this?

All sights turned on the mech, and he set his mandible, searching deep inside of Optimus' optics for an answer. He was looking for something specific. Carefully, Solas dared part his dry lip plates. "I don't believe I deserve to be her Guardian," he admitted, locking his servos between his legs to hide their trembling. His arms were tense as the rest of him, with tiny quivers leaving him every so often. Optimus began to respond, but Solas interrupted him before he could say anything. "What she deserves is one more capable of handling her...abilities, and safety...more wisely."

While Solas watched Optimus, ashamed, the grave warrior witnessed a grin cross the Prime's faceplates. His noble features softened and melted into the more likable side of commander that Solas wished to see more often. Pride collected in his optics, as well as a mix of sympathy and scolding. They spoke all that needed to be said: This is it. If you make another mistake like this again, it's all over. It was his final warning.

"I believe you made a mistake," Optimus stated smoothly. "Your torture, along with your waning opinion of yourself seems fitting punishment enough."

Solas' helm hung, as he knew the Prime was taking pity on him and he was deserving of far worse than what he'd been granted. In the dim quiet, a single voice, Optimus' again surprisingly, plunged into a tale of epic sorrow. "I had been granted the Matrix of Leadership at a time where I came to find my destiny had changed completely," Optimus began, relaying one of his ageless stories from the earlier vorns of the Great War. "My universe shattered and all those I dearly beloved either perished or betrayed me. My stability came from this war, its combatants, and my sparkmate. It is comforting that I may have confidence in a warrior such as yourself, Solas, and add you to my growing list of respectable figures."

"I appreciate your comment," Solas accepted, in shock. Truly, he did feel a prick of pride in himself for officially belonging in Prime's inner circle. It was a tight band of warriors, family, and other Autobots or Neutrals that a slim few ever made it to. Solas felt honored. Finally, after all these vorns of striving for acceptance in a faction he believe never to accept him, he'd gained the respect and trust he'd worked for. All it took was to put him and others in danger, a member of their faction to be killed, and the Saint Louis base to be destroyed.

"May you speak with us over the conditions of the Decepticon ranks as of your last visit?" Rodimus asked, bringing the conversation into a new light. Solas sagged with the relief it brought him to be rid of this burden of worry, and shuttered his optics while he figured out the best way to explain his journey. No way seemed good.

"I'd rather not speak of it," he explained, cringing with the files of agonizing torture he'd been put through, and the height of terror he held for himself and his charge. Flashes of himself passed by, bringing on the stinging taste of his own energon and the feel of every traitorous blow to the helm by Titanios. Then Bekos had appeared from the dark and tried hacking his processor. Or, so he'd originally figured. For afterward, he awoke to complete numbness and without a will to scream anymore. Fera was gone. Then Bekos had returned. Everything following was messy, blurry history.

A few steps echoed across the steel walls of Optimus' office, and Solas opened his optics to find Rodimus closer to him than Optimus. Beside his even voice, there was but the hiss of Ratchet's microscorcher and the buzz of the holomap Optimus had left on. "It is vital information, Solas," Rodimus pressed, servo opening. "We have to be aware of what is happening on the other side."

On the other side. They were completely in the dark on all of this. They could have went to Bekos and his mate, Titanios, or even Fera. But they'd chosen him. After looking between Ratchet and Optimus, Solas found himself without help. Anyways, Rodimus was in his right to request Solas inform them. The mech had known he would have to spill things eventually, but so soon? It was all so painful to recall...

"Galvatron," he stated, firmly, his tone wobbling. Solas revved his engines to right his voice, and he tried again, steadier this time. Many memories and emotions were attached to that name. "They revived Megatron into a mech they call Galvatron. From what I can tell Arachnid is out of power completely." He stopped, letting the three 'Bots soak this in. "The mech is insane. He abuses his subordinates and used me as bait to wring as much information out of Fera as he possibly could."

"Did he get much?" Rodimus wondered, gently. After all, he had been a prisoner of the Decepticons once too. In fact, he had helped rescue Fera from the first time she had been held hostage. If any mech could be worthy of understanding Sol's situation, it would be him. If another had asked Sol this question, the Guardian would have immediately snapped at them. Anyone else would have been disrespectful. Rodimus was merely relating.

Solas shook his helm from side to side, knowing, feeling in his spark, the hope that these mechs would understand most his story through his behavior, and not his words. The Guardian would rather leave silent things be rather than stir up unwanted memory files. What had gotten him so bad this time? For vorns he had been chased, beaten, battered, slashed, stabbed, broken, kidnapped, and interrogated. What made this event stand out?

It was all about Fera. He hadn't ever seen her tortured like that in front of him before. Though not a scratch adorned her frame then, it was the invisible wounds he could see growing that disturbed him the most. Whatever agony - whatever pain and suffering he endured, she did too. And when he wanted to die -a truly selfish and stupid request now that he processed over it- she did too. Their bond may have been broken, but their connection had never been stronger.

Ratchet stood here, mercifully taking his stand in the conversation as he wiped a dirtied rag over his servos. "Whatever is going on up in that vessel needs to be known by the entirety of the Autobot faction," the CMO decided, optics searching each frame with the sharpness of a medic. When he returned to Sol, he had the rag held against Sol's shoulderbolt, and his digits dipping into the contours of the mech's armor that he didn't even realize he had. "Our adversaries have a new leader, and thus they have an advantage over us: knowledge. We don't know what Galvatron is capable of, or how he plans on getting what he wants, however, from my understanding, he will do anything necessary to get to Fera Lennox-"

Solas jerked when Ratchet hit a sore spot on his shoulderbolt cuff, his servo coming up to bat away the medic's. Ratchet looked down on him in confusion. "I thought you said you were numb?"

"I am," Solas said, rolling the shoulderbolt and eyeing the mech irritably. "But only in certain spots." When he clarified, Ratchet snorted at him as if he were being ridiculous. But, the only ridiculous 'Bot in this room was fixing up Solas. The warrior met gazes with the former and current Prime. "And besides that, Galvatron is no new Megatron. Believe me this when I tell you that he is no longer the brother you bore, Optimus. There is no spark in that frame. No remorse."

The Prime's servos stilled and his expression became grim. What could he be processing about? His CPU must have been filled with grief at losing dear friends so often. Solas wasn't certain he would have been able to retain his sanity if it were him in the Prime's peds. And perhaps that was why he was Prime, and not a washup-gone-Guardian. Still, it must be haunting him. Solas had lost many brothers and sisters-in-arms. Nonetheless, he'd yet to lose one of them three times.

"Fera mentioned something about the Galvanizer," Solas piped in, averting his optics to avoid the abyss of Optimus'. "Punch had told her it was the only way to win this war."

Rodimus sighed and moved to a chair that sat against a wall to Sol's right. He reclined back and took a moment to squeeze the bridge of his noseplate, then spoke. "It is unfortunate that we are unsure of merely how to control the Galvanizer, or how it will aid us in the war. Both instances of its use have been by accident." A deep moan escaped him and his servo fell from his faceplates, revealing an aged profile far beyond his vorns. "For now we can simply attempt to have yourself and Rethalia council with the Primes, and perhaps teach her how to control it," he went on, optics turned on Optimus. Again, the Prime said not a word. He was too caught up in his own universe.

"What about other Tools?" Solas suggested, wincing when Ratchet poked at the space between his neck and collar armor. "Are there any more on Earth?"

Rodimus shook his helm. "Each was sent to a specific planet, separately so as to not make it easier for the Decepticons to find," he explained tiredly. "We basically made it almost impossible when we gave the Stones to different Keepers, and Alpha Trion and I split the information between us. It is virtually impossible to gather all the Keepers together and exploit their power."

Solas' lip plates pressed into a firm line, his frame growing frigid. Ratchet noticed the tiny twitch in his motion and began paying attention to the conversation again. "But one is enough to hold the power of a Prime in their grasp," he countered. "If Galvatron somehow managed to get all Keepers, their Stones, and their Tools together, he could overthrow the Thirteen, or worse yet, Primus himself."

Ignoring the worst-case-scenario comment, Sol grabbed the edge of his seat until his digits made dents. "Are there any more Keepers here on Earth besides Fera?"

Rodimus, unsure, sent his gaze to Optimus, for permission it seemed. The Prime needn't a sparkbeat to nod his helm, mighty posture stricken with an unseen weight. This all was was catching up with him, certainly.

"I know only five, whereas Trion knows the eight others," Rodimus informed, mandible tight with the sacred information he was giving. This was something he had risked his life cycle for. It must have been difficult to let it all go after all this time. "Ironhide was one, as you know. Along with him, there was Grimlock, Jazz, Bumblebee, and..." he squinted in thought, "Drift, I believe."

"That is three Keepers on this planet in itself!" Ratchet argued, rag thrown to the floor. He failed to notice his patient's deathly still frame. "What danger have you put this universe in by dare mingling Keepers with Decepticon foes on the same planet?"

Rodimus' servos rose in a placating gesture. Solas remained a statue. "It was never meant to be! Bumblebee, Jazz, and Ironhide left with Optimus before Alpha Trion or I could assign them work to stay on Cybertron. As for the others, I was already en route to Earth upon your hails, Optimus."

Solas remained where he was, giving less than a byte of care for the argument made by Ratchet, or the conversation in itself past the designations of the Keepers. There was one there that caught his attention - one that meant far more than the others ever would. It meant flying blades and gentle words. It meant vicious battle cries and a high chin. It meant the glorious invincibility and a strong holding capsule upon the spinal support of a dolanno.

Running his servos along his thighs, Solas found himself in a deaf distance. He could not hear the words exchanged by Ratchet and Rodimus. Tingling shivers raced along his arms and pierced the depth of his spark. A certain mech's profile ran past the back of his optics. It moved from rage to joy; agony to pride; hatred to love. They were the many versions of expressions Solas had seen upon a warrior's faceplates.

"Did you say...Drift?" he murmured, unable to raise his soft voice. It was unstable - unreliable against the raging storm of his spark. Optics edged in a gray stupor lifted to the warrior sitting next to the wall. Despite the low level of his voice, Solas had caught the group's attention. Rodimus was observing him curiously, probably searching for his thoughts.

When he was satisfied, he laid his servos on his kneebolts and nodded his helm. "Yes, I did." He slung his bracer over his thigh, his free servo pressing a fist to his other. "Is there something wrong with him?"

Solas ran a servo over his helm, his sights dropping to the floor. "No, no...it's just..." He couldn't get himself to say it.

"Just what, Solas?"

To avert topic, Solas shot for another direction. "Could some 'Bot know those Trion does, in case of his termination?" he wondered. This was a genuine question he held, and he hoped the others were wishing for the same answers.

Ratchet touched Solas' shoulderbolt, and from his faceplates, Solas knew he wasn't buying it. "Sol, Rodimus asked you a question."

"No, no it's fine," Rodimus intervened, waving the medic off. His careful optics remained on Sol at all times. "A3's knowledge would have deadsparked with him. Only the Covenant of Primus knows them all, as it does everything other. And Alpha Trion is the only mech known able to access it." His features turned steely. "Now, is there something you wished to say about the Autobot Drift?"

A great, amber thrust of avoidance struck Solas here. "Perhaps it would be for a better time..." His suggestion would go unheeded, for the three staring adamantly at him had obviously been left thirsting for information.

Rodimus stood, stepping forward with a plea in his optics and his servo open, as if trying to establish a link of understanding between them. Solas sat straighter, balling up his digits. No matter what Rodimus had been through, this was something he could not say he knew of. As much, Solas gave a silent warning for the mech to keep his distance. Rodimus was smart enough to pick up on it and stop.

"Solas-"

"Rodimus, I don't want to say anything about it."

The ex-Prime was vigilant. Frustration was plain on his features. "Solas, I understand you are uncomfortable. However, we merely wish to better exhaust all of our options against Galvatron. If there is even a slight chance that-"

"My creator."

Sentences faltered. Faceplates of all three mechs slackened. Confusion and bewilderment cycled as a giant ventilation system around them, coming through Solas as a stinging thorn. Anger filtered through a resentment in his very gridmap and his helm sank forward for him to hide the pain surely crossing his faceplates.

A shadow passed Solas as Ratchet moved away, leaning on the console that held Optimus' holomap. The Prime himself, always the one with something to say, was saying nothing. His shock was clear in the shallow drafts of air through his vents. Rodimus stumbled in reverse and fell back into his chair with a loud thump. Solas' cranial unit rose, his crest gleaming faintly under the artificial light above them. He could see the gears turning in Rodimus' helm as he worked through all that was given to him.

Finally his servo clapped against the side of his helm, his optics distant. "Excuse...me?" he vented, gaze traveling to Solas again.

Swallowing back his uncertainty, Solas repeated himself, "Drift was my creator."

The first thing Optimus said in a good while was, "Primus...that mech had a sparkling?" And he could but follow Rodimus' path in falling victim to his processor. He must have been factoring in all the disappearances by Drift before he defected from the Autobot ranks; how he would do anything to keep the raging war from reaching that certain sector of Kaon back on Cybertron; how he hid talk about his own sparkling by naming the little one after a Prime and a city-state to hide its true identity. The Autobots would never have known if Solas Kaon's designation had come up in conversation. Solas had been a hidden member of the Autobots from orn one. He'd simply been unknown.

"Two," Solas corrected as his servos knitted together, recalling the bright spark that was his family unit. "I had a sister designated Starlily."

This fazed the group for a quick sparkbeat. "Who was his sparkmate?" Optimus inquired next. Because a Cybertronian was unable to bear a sparkling without a sparkmate.

"Nova, a Neutral from the Terminal class in Kaon's fifth district."

"He..." Rodimus began, sputtering from his dark corner at the impossibility of it all. "That mech...he perished at the servos of a Decepticon."

Solas frowned at the mention of his dolanno's deadspark. It had been blunt and too formal, and Solas didn't appreciate it. "Yes, he did," he spat, spark pulsing. Rodimus' optic ridges came down in an unsaid apology. "For defecting from the Decepticons, he made us all targets. He got himself killed on a solitary mission to Crystal City, where an ambush awaited him. He left my nannia dying before she and my sibling were killed in my absence."

"Did he ever say anything about the Keepers? Or the Tools of Life?" Optimus insisted, further ripping open the wounds of Solas' past. The insensitivity was raw to the mech, however, as a warrior who'd been through worse, he knew it wise to hold his glossa. His faceplates aimed at the fire-painted legs standing yards away.

Sol's thumb link began stroking the dented cuff of his kneebolt. He wondered how long it would take until he was up to his full capabilities again. Or, if he ever would be. "No, I had no idea of them until you told me. I'd worked with a research team on the legend of the Stones of Primus for a short while, but nothing further than their origin."

"Optimus, do you know what this means?" Rodimus demanded, sitting up without warning. He sprung to his peds, causing Sol to jerk. Their Prime twisted his helm toward the flustered warrior at his side, and his lip plates weighed heavily on his already weary faceplates.

"None whatsoever," he admitted.

"Fera, she is a Keeper. That is because she shared similar DNA compounds as her male creator, which enabled his ability as a Keeper to transfer to her," he explained. Interest peaked in Solas' CPU at this. He stood with a creak of his limbs and grimaced when he felt the numbness in him washing away to reveal the pain beyond. Perhaps it had been that pinched line in his side that had kept him from feeling it all.

Pressing a servo to his side seemed to ebb it for a tolerable moment. If he didn't move wrong or vent deeply, that was. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Rodimus waved his servos at his sides, performing the ageless tick he bore when he had an epiphany of some kind. Whenever on Cybertron he often did this in the presence of an issue. Solas believed that he must have done it quite often in his term as Prime. Solas was already long gone by then. "Fera shared the same molecular structure as her creator." His servo swept from his left, to his right. "Your gridmap mirrors that of his mech creator's."

"You're point being...?" Solas egged. This was becoming tedious.

Rodimus stabbed a digit at Solas, and the mech felt as though it had stabbed him through the chassis. It felt similar to a searing, white-hot rod tearing through his middle. Or was that the injuries experienced from the Nemesis? Either way, it didn't feel good, and Solas lifted a servo to rub at the spot.

"My point is, is that you may very well share the capabilities of your dolanno," he stated. "Of Drift."

The pure energy passing through Solas knocked him off his peds and into the chair, where he remained, struck silent, his frame too riddled with activity to possibly process what he'd heard straight. What Rodimus had just told him was that he could, very possibly, be in the exact place as Fera. He was telling Solas that there was a Stone in existence, meant for his use, for him to wield and plant in his Tool so he may become a Keeper like her. In this universe, a Prime had chosen him, of all other possible Cybertronians, to grace their name and do their work in keeping the peace. A destiny, beyond him was awaiting to unfold, where he would become known and renowned throughout eternity in the Covenant of Primus.

However, what Rodimus was saying that he, Solas Kaon, was responsible for this title waiting for him. This was a mech whom had stolen energon because his family unit had been too poor to buy the necessary amount to stay alive. This was a mech who had spent nearly two-hundred vorns slaughtering mechs and fembots like him as a gladiator so that he may live past his sentence and return to his family unit waiting for him. This was the Guardian who had allowed his charge to be kidnapped twice and let be tortured. This was a mech who had let himself become a whole other entity that he wasn't sure his creators would approve of.

"No, I can't..." he vented, servo clutching the armor over his spark. It was going to explode. He felt as if his helm were going to float off his shoulderbolts. His tanks knotted, threatening a purge. "Not me."

Not someone so undeserving.

Solas' optics drained away into a place he'd forgotten he'd ever been to. Nothing made sense. Drift couldn't have been a Keeper...he was far to unruly - too beyond the belief of an Original Prime, or that Primus was influencing his wrecked life cycle. Solas had been his attempt at redemption. And look where his sparkling was now: Wounded until he could barely move, with his processor loaded to a crashing point. It in no way a place where he found himself strong. Drift would never have been chosen. Thus, Solas should never have either.

A figure approached, squatting down to level their faceplates with the Guardian's. Their shadow engulfed Solas'. For once, he wished to disappear in that mass of a mech. He wanted his dolanno there to explain all of this. But Optimus was the only thing there, with his ageless presence and his boundless influence. "Solas," he rumbled, "we may very well have to consider that you, as well as Fera, are Keepers for the Stones of Primus." His blue orbs bounced with their ceaseless capacity of understanding. But he couldn't ever understand - he wasn't a Keeper.

Nonetheless, that was how Optimus was, always trying to comprehend what couldn't be comprehended. "Primus chose you for a reason to bear this burden. Cherish it."

His warmth was replaced by ominous seriousness. The servo that had suddenly appeared there on Sol's kneebolt tightened. "And tell absolutely no living being of this."

"How long has it been since you recharged?"

A dull series of taps stopped doing what they had been doing for the past groon and left the airs to drop into a bitter silence. Light bounced off of them from a wide screen full of things inscribed in a language few to none on this planet spoke. Even fewer fluently. They whispered of meaningless things tied to other meaningless things. Unless one had delved into the beginnings of the research, they wouldn't understand a byte of information on display. It had begun when the lack of activity in Deception ranks spurred an early lunch for the humans. They refueled so often. It was ridiculous. Inefficient.

Thus, a more personal dive had been taken by a specific mech in his everlasting -secret- journey. To find what, he was unsure of yet. However, he had found a trail, and he was currently tracing it with the vigor of a starving Crident in the Terminal sectors of Cybertron. An entity beyond him was controlling the motion of his digits and the ferocity of his processor.

Two other beings much like the analyst were situated in the space, neither quite similar to, or different from, him. They were analysts, like him. But they could express feeling - they knew to control their emotions. They also knew when to listen to their frames when the things were about to crash. This mech, apparently did not.

Prowl, in all his run-down and stressed glory, tilted his helm barely toward the sound of Bluestring's voice. A talent of Prowl's was to go for insane amounts of time without recharge. No mech had quite beaten the being at his best game. It was rumored among the younger recruits on Cybertron that Prowl had once gone an entire vorn without shutting down. Of course, that wasn't true. But who was still online long enough to prove that?

"I can recharge after I find what I am looking for," the analyst and tactician stated, returning his digits to their flustered motion.

Bluestring, brother and fellow armory smith with Hawktail, stepped up to the viewing screens. His wide faceplates and optics soaked in the milky glow of the screens. The edges of his blunt helm shone, bouncing off the white with piercing clarity. The information before him registered within his processor, however, his expression showed the confusion of a sparkling given the fourth-layer dexterous formula. Though just introduced to the analyst position before joining Prowl's team headed for Earth, Bluestring was a brilliant and bright spark, that picked up on everything his mentor taught him quite easily.

It was when Prowl became this other entity that concerned him. Before coming to Earth, he hadn't been this way. "Which is what, I may ask?" Bluestring inquired, looking to Prowl's focused features. Prowl hadn't been like this before he heard of Jazz's deadspark.

"Nothing," Prowl quipped, somewhat removed, as if lost in a parallel dimension.

"You're lying," Bluestring snapped back, genuinely worried for his borderline-obsessive comrade.

Prowl's sharp helm turned, a flashing sprout of light that set the air on fire for the briefest sparkbeat. His two icy optics were laced in a grayish tone that always signaled his near-hypnotized state. When he got this way, no 'Bot could get to him. That was, unless they were Jazz. "I have never lied," he intoned.

Red and white echoed from the shadows behind the mechs, taking the shape of a nervous and quiet Red Alert. "That right there was a lie," he accused, boldly for his character. He was one that found himself far more at ease with these two to speak up than with any other Autobots or humans on base. He didn't fritz as much because they didn't stress him. Prowl was straightforward and careful with his words. Bluestring brought the warmth to the coldness of the computers. It probably helped that Hawktail was vaguely similar to Prowl that Bluestring found it so easy to work with him. They were a great team, and Red Alert found comfort in that.

Prowl and Bluestring both turned on the securities director, and he paused. He stood on the barrier of light and dark, leaving an ashen array of shadows to linger on his frame. "Don't let your grief blind you."

If any had said this to Prowl besides Bluestring or Red Alert, they would be sent to the brig. Instead, the tactician merely stood, struck silent in a way he never was. Bluestring's observant optics turned from director to analyst with an edge of anticipation. He was curious to see what Prowl would do, if anything, since no 'Bot had dared mention Jazz's deadspark to him since his arrival on Earth some ten decacycles ago. Those ten decacycles which had been used searching for Primus-knows what.

Without say, Prowl returned forward to click a button that would surely turn off the security cameras, and went back to his work. He was keeping his trained optics on the screen with an unhealthy vigilance. Bluestring watched for those moments longer and shook his helm sadly from side to side. When was the last time the mech even cleaned himself? There was dirt and dust covering him in a second layer from crest to toelinks. The keys he worked on were worn down until their symbols were almost gone. The tips of his digits were glossy from being constantly overused.

Bluestring made the brash move to lift his servo and set it on Prowl's shoulderbolt. All life ceased then at that moment. The air turned frigid. Shadows stilled, bowing inward in anxious curiosity to see what would transpire next. The noxious smell of a system in overdrive struck Bluestring's senses. "He's right, and you know it," the white and blue mech reasoned softly. What Prowl needed right now was their support, not the condescending words of his other peers, or the pitying warmth of trying to relate with him. "This has gone on long enough. You're abusing yourself, and you don't even know what for, or why-"

"He's alive!" Prowl abruptly shouted, faceplates draining of the practiced serenity he usually held. So that was why he turned off the cameras. He was going to blow.

His frame had tensed up and his digits were bound into fists. He slammed one against the console and his helm hung low, optics shuttered tight. "Jazz is alive, I know it. There must be a way. There must be. Jazz had abilities beyond the sane capacitance of a regular being, thus he should have been equipped with abilities that led him to survival. How could he...?" So that had been what was bothering the mech this whole time.

The mech's babbling stopped and his whole frame curled in, like he was getting ready for battle. After ten decacycles, he was still haunted by the saboteur deadspark? Prowl whipped around, stalking across the floor toward the door. Red Alert stepped up, wanting to place a servo on Prowl's shoulderbolt, but he hesitated. "Prowl, where are you-?"

"Do not follow me," he grounded out from behind gritted oral sheets. "I request to be alone."

The last thing Bluestring wanted to do was leave the analyst alone to fall victim to his raging CPU. Nevertheless it seemed that what Prowl needed right then was a bit of time to himself to reconcile things. A sigh escaped him when the entrance slammed shut behind the black and white mech's door wings. Red Alert looked to him for advice, yet, all Bluestring could manage to say was, "Leave him be."

Red Alert opened his lip plates to speak, but nothing came out. It was his tick that he of course break down in high-level stress situations. Things were definitely strenuous as of late, and it felt as though they would never ease. Prowl was shutting all others out. Not a kalon went by where Bluestring wasn't fretting over the mech or badgering him to take care of his frame. Prowl listened every so often, however, the majority of it he was deaf to. It was quite similar to trying to climb a wall that was coated in oil.

As he did seemingly ever kalon, Bluestring shut down all the files on screen. Red Alert remained quiet, as he always did. And the humans returned right on time to get back to their stations. As they always did.

A pair of startlingly bright bulbs of light flickered into existence. They were a cobalt color, edged with white, which brought an icy tone to their magnificent glow. They were wide and full of wonder. Innocence was oddly lost in them. Wisdom beyond their time was there too. They coiled and reveled in the depth of darkness surrounding them. They fed from it, becoming a brilliance that only a spark in itself may surpass. Ferocious fire fluttered in every crevice and contour, sending a soft cascade of azure over anything they gave light to.

The fembot they were attached to was plagued by the awareness of an ending nightmare. But, of course, it wasn't a nightmare, because Cybertronians never had such a thing. They merely had glitched memory files, or ones that were ruined already. She had plenty of both to expect in her recharge, and this seemed no different. For the good hour she had lain awake, waiting for their influence to leave her. They never did, and her pattering spark and racing processor was left spinning.

It felt as though the only entity keeping her from panicking was the set of weary and exhausted faceplates before her. They were angled and hard, with steep cheekplates and a strong mandible that ate away at the youth he was leaving behind. Those thick lip plates of his hung parted ever so slightly, with the small scar on the right side of them glittering under the light of her optics. Another short line of dulled silver ran over his left cheekplate. His optics twitched under the visions of his recharge, where he was either reliving the good, or the bad, of his life cycle. Hopefully it was the good.

So far, it didn't appear that way, though. While Fera had laid there, optics open to the elements of night, Solas had constantly stirred and shifted. Emotions played out on his handsome features, telling tales of woo and sparkbreak. Fera had witnessed these expressions with avid concern and fear, and at one point had been tempted to wake him. But he needed the rest, and as such, she left him be.

It was now that she dared do a thing to him, for her Guardian was being attacked by his processor right before her optics. At first, it was a grand move of his frame, with his arm tightening around her waist, thus bringing her closer to his chassis; the subtle frown of his lip plates, as though tasting something bitter; and the dissatisfaction on his features, telling of both pain and anger. It was agonizing and yet interesting to watch. Did he go through this every recharge? Is that why he avoided it until near collapse?

Did she appear this way when she recharged?

Solas made a tiny noise and Fera went still, afraid to even vent. His own were warm against her chassis, sending shivers down her length when she realized the difference between him and the coldness of the room. She shimmied impossibly nearer to him, intent on keeping them as close as possible. Before this, they were always kept apart. Whether it be by the Decepticons, or Autobots, or humans, they were always kept at a distance. She was determined to keep them together, even out of recharge. Was this the only time they got together, alone?

Her lithe, new faceplates aimed up for his, and she stared, undoubtedly, into the features of a mech who had risked it all to keep her safe. From the highway where the drone had attacked them, to the moment where he took a blast directly to his spark so that Bumblebee would have enough time to save her and her mother...it was all for her. And she could never repay him enough for it. All the promises he'd made, he'd kept, no matter how long it took to keep them. So it was her turn to keep promises too.

A tear suddenly ran out of Solas' optic and Fera's spark shattered. Her digits lifted from his chassis, crawling up out of the nonexistent space between them and toward the stretch of his features. Her slim servo cupped his cheekplate delicately, trying not to wake him, and she caught his tear. It was slick and warm, and slipped through her digits when she tried stopping it.

As it kept flowing, trickling in a soundless path down the side of his faceplates, she grinned and craned her helm forward. "I'll be your Guardian tonight," she promised, gently kissing the wet surface that held all the images of his pain and sadness.

When she pulled away, she was surprised to find his teal optics to be cracked open. They followed her adamantly, with a fever only a warrior like him may have. He devoured her features, taking them in as if she were a precious gem. It made a buzzing energy capture her spark and cause her vents to choke up.

"I'll hold you to that promise," he rumbled, giving her a smile. Fera grinned back and began to take her servo back to lay on his chassis, but he reached up and held it in place. "No, no...keep it there. It feels nice."

Fera nodded and locked gazes with her Guardian until his optic slips closed and his venting evened out. She stayed this way, with his servo holding hers to his cheekplate, and his other wound around her spinal support, keeping her in place. She fit so nicely against him that it was hard to imagine that they were two separate beings. She felt as though her frame were meant to meld with his, as though they were two pieces of the same puzzle. Did he feel the same? By the way he held her, she would say yes, but Solas was a hard one to read.

Fera let a long flush of air cycle out of her vents and she set the crest of her helm in the small crook of Sol's neck. His chin pressed to her foreplate, lip plates almost kissing her helm. They were so close that she could simply reach up and brush lip plates with him. It was be as it had been on the Nemesis, but different. It would be better.

The idea was still dancing around in her processor when Fera fell into a deep recharge.

I know, I know,

You all want more Fera and Solas time.

I read your comments :)

But don't worry, next chapter you're all going to get a real treat :D

But let's talk about Solas' predicament for a minute.

Yikes.

See you all next week!

*Chapter Inspiration: Hurt= Johnny Cash*