Fire of Youth
Chapter 31
Note to Julian: I'm glad you enjoy this so much! Frankly, I have a lot of fun writing this series! As for Magnus...yeah, he's definitely got a pole up his rear end when it comes to following protocol, and he and Wheeljack understandably never got along in light of that. And it's not that he's "trusting easily" per say. He's more the type to think of the purely tactical applications of warfare, not the emotional aspect. He doesn't "trust" the Seelies – but as a tactician, you take advantage of turncoats whenever you can to even the playing field. Remember: it's one thing to serve a cause, and it's another thing to believe in it. The Seelies are merely serving.
*And introducing a new OC Predacon: Spritelight!
*Note: Time difference between Scotland and Nevada is pretty intense.
Living thunder rumbled through the mine, a mighty pounding of sound stressed by a piercing screeching loud enough to wake even the Old One. Again the scream of rage rang within the cold stone walls. So powerful was the thundering scream that the mine trembled at the noise, isolated rains of fine stone and debris unable to take the audial punishment. The support beams, carefully maintained over the centuries by its tiny pit crew, seemed to groan in protest and bend forward in submission. A heavy metallic rumble and clank of paw and talon foretold of the incoming creature, mad with the hunter's frenzy. The brazen creature bounded ahead, sure of its direction, though it could no longer see the world around it. It had had enough of battle-tricks. It wanted revenge. It wanted blood. It wanted that little black she-devil of a Felioid ripped apart. It wanted that conniving white mech gutted and burnt blacker than her smooth armor. There was no chance of that, however – the white mech's scent had faded into the distance as he and his tribe mates had fled. Typical it thought cynically. That had been the tactic the last time the white mech had attacked. But it could smell that horrid little black she-devil in what must be the mine's spark chamber, strong and sweet with wet turf and sour with the stench of the bogs. It was not a smell it found pleasing. It would relish removing that odor from existence – relish every moment of it.
Screaming, it stormed into the chamber where the scent was strongest, its massive body and spread wings blocking easy egress.
Through cracked optics it saw them. Standing there in a small heat-huddle was the black she-devil and her tribe mates, one of whom, a scraggly and scarred hound, issued a frightened whine and backed away, tail down. Mercy, it begged. Clemency. But it would not accept the show of meek submission so easily. A lesson needed to be taught to the little ones for their misbehavior. They were not the ones in control – it was. Rearing back, it slammed its paws against the stone beneath it and let out a scream louder than any it had managed before now, wings out as far as they would go and their dark amber mesh displayed. The little ones did not flinch save for their scraggly companion, who sank onto his paws and laid his helm down in further submission, ever whining for pity and mercy. But one was not enough. The hound had not been the one to attack it and render it blind. Fire bubbled up its neck, collecting in the back of its throat. It kept it there, waiting. The mottled green hound, the place-changer, mimicked his friend's honor-bow. The strange horned creature bowed its own helm and bent one leg forward in its own bow. The she-devil, however, did not follow suite. She would not heed the lesson. But as its throat grew hotter and hotter from its fire, as it readied to spew it and scald her black armor blacker, it heard the she-devil hiss, growl – and she bowed at last.
The fire receded. It snorted. But it would not forgive their insult so easily.
"We meant nae harm," the scraggly hound pleaded in his pathetic whine. "We acted in innocence! Oor task is te protect this horde! We did so. Mercy, we beg of ye! The moderns wood have skinned us if we refused te help!"
It growled: "Weak-will is not a trait smiled upon."
The she-devil hissed back that the hound was no warrior. He had been aloof from battle, from others, for so long he had forgotten basic etiquette. He did nae need te pick on him for it! Draconians – peh! she snorted. His kind were all the same! Always so high and mighty! Her helm shook to and fro in rapid movements as if to shake something off.
It snorted again. It did not like this she-devil, but it admired her vinegar glossa, and she certainly knew how to fling insults with it. Though that last quality could use tempering or that glossa could lead to trouble with Lord Megatron and his subordinates.
The burly horned beast stepped forward.
"We wish to report in, arms-brother."
Growling, it began to pace. This was not a decision it was supposed to be making. Decisions of troop integration needed to be dealt with by the alpha, Lord Megatron. It had no means to contact him; the privilege had not yet been granted to it. It paused in realization. The soldiers outside did. Each had the frequency of every high-ranked officer, and it could smell them just outside the mine. The soldiers could relay that request. By the time Soundwave or the shadow-beast sent for them, the problem of integration could be resolved and a great deal of trouble spared. Yes, that would please Lord Megatron. And Ravage.
"Come."
Turning sharply, it plodded out towards the open skies that lay above. Behind, it could hear the light steps of the little ones trailing after it, keeping their distance. The she-devil kept up a rumbling growl that rose and lowered in pitch the entire way to the surface. She did not like it – well, it did not like her, either. They were even.
Not all of the troops had escaped their confrontation in one piece, and none had escaped alive. Screeching, it slunk forward to investigate the helmless corpse of one, its shattered optics discerning Energon leaking out of the space its helm had once occupied. In the clean severance it saw the mark of the White Coward. How was it to contact its alpha now with its links dead? Mid-step, it paused. Ravage – Ravage had the alpha's frequency, and that of the One Who Never Spoke. Ravage could relay the message. It lifted its helm to scent the air, seeking its mentor. It found him...but the scent was distant, many klicks away. Why was he so distant? Had the green hound transported him to an inescapable trap?
*Ravage?*
No answer. At least not immediately.
*What.*
It was not a question. He sounded displeased, and yet the displeasure, it sensed, was not aimed explicitly at it.
*Could you contact Lord Megatron? The little ones wish to reintegrate, and the officers here are offline.*
Ravage growled on the other end, *They do, do they? Even after they attacked us both they have the gall to ask for an armistice?*
*They told me they were merely obeying orders: protect the mine from intruders. It seems they interpreted that order broadly.*
Another growl, *They did not attack the Wreckers. Their story reeks of falsehoods.*
No, it explained. The grey hound had said they had been under coercion. If they had attacked them they would have been butchered. The grey hound was a whimpering coward but he had seemed honest in his pleas for mercy and in his explanation. Was it not right to invite brothers and sisters back into the pack after being wronged by the enemy?
A final growl.
*Fine,* conceded Ravage, *but Lord Megatron will want to be certain of their loyalty. There are troops near your location. Soundwave will send a groundbridge for you. Sending coordinates.*
Before it could thank him, Ravage cut the line. He was upset over something, that much it could tell from words alone. But Ravage prided himself on emotional neutrality, for too much emotion was a bad trait in a hunter. What could have possibly triggered him to forgo that trait? Hissing, it scraped a clawed limb into the soft stone. It wanted back on the dark flying den where things made sense, but without sight and with it growing dark, travel could prove difficult – and it doubted the she-devil or the green hound would take acute pleasure in playing guide or simply transporting it and them to the site. Flight direct to the flying den would prove too dangerous; it could smell a thunderstorm coming. The coordinates Ravage had provided were due south, over the bluffs, and near the shore of an enclosed body of water, roughly twenty klicks away. Might as well start moving.
*This way.*
Little ones in tow, it headed off into the bluffs as the alien sunlight fled.
The she-devil was still growling.
The trooper cringed again at the unholy shriek of the bird, apply named Screech, perched on the stone nearby. There was no easy way to describe the sound, but the closest he could get was the yowling of a hundred wounded cats, nails scraping on a chalkboard, the wail of a bond mate just after severance, and a low cooing noise. It was horrible, and it made his audials wither each time it shrieked. The bird itself was a mixture of dark teals, sickly greens, gunmetal grey, and black, looking like...well, kind of like an over-sized, marginally ill raven maybe, a shorter version of a heron's neck, and had an impressive plume on its helm. The beast itself wasn't even that large, a real runt compared to the Draconian.
Why Lord Megatron would want this screaming, miniature creature on the Nemesis he didn't understand, but Shockwave insisted the beast was his and was valuable. He had to wonder if her value outweighed her drawbacks. The beast would give everyone a migraine before it was ever deployed into the field. If Lord Megatron wanted to remove the Autobots then all he had to do in his opinion was stick her in their base.
"Could someone get the sick pigeon to zip it?" grumbled another trooper, watching for movement with five others. "It's giving me a processor ache."
To which Screech replied with another of her shrill, hoarse namesakes, plume rising in a threat display. Another trooper snickered.
"Glitch doesn't like you, dimwatt."
The trooper jumped back when Screech shrieked again, adding a threatening flare of her wings and snapping.
"Maybe if we stop trying to frag it off it'll be quiet?" he suggested through a cringe. "Remember, they're not just animals. They can talk and they can understand us."
"Sympathizer with the beasts, huh?" ridiculed the name-calling trooper.
"No," he insisted, "but flinging insults isn't going to get it to shut up. You want it to shut up, then just be quiet. And if Ravage finds out you were name tossing, you'll be dead before morning."
The other trooper grumbled but decided to heed the advice. He thought, after roughly a breem had passed, that perhaps his idea had done the trick. Screech seemed to quiet down, her namesakes fading into a rumbling, high-pitched purr sort of noise. Everyone air cycled that much easier. But then, right when they were all starting to relax a little, the bird let out another of her Primus-awful shrieks. Taking wing, she flew over to perch on his helm. He froze, terrified of what might happen if he had the nerve to move. She just wanted a vantage point, he assured himself, that was all. Shockwave had mentioned for their benefit that Avioids preferred high ground. That was how they'd tracked her down: she'd been up in a tree. Watching them. Screech shrieked again, talons shifting. He did his best not to wince as they dug into his plating. Funny, he thought, that she was facing out towards the bluffs behind him. There was nothing out there but damp dirt. Dare he turn to see what it was that had captured her attention?
"Look!" exclaimed a trooper.
A murmur of shock swept through his fellow soldiers. There was something out there, something Screech didn't like and put his fellow soldiers on edge.
"It's not on scanners..." muttered another. "The Pit?"
He tensed. That wasn't reassuring. There was something out there, and yet it wasn't appearing on a scan? That was like saying a cloaker was visible while cloaked.
Screech shifted again, tugging at his helm. He got the message (he hoped he did anyway) and turned. Screech didn't claw so he must've read her actions right. His confusion soon matched the others. What he saw made no sense.
Dancing on the horizon in a strange, jerking, swirling waltz was a sphere-like, pale teal light. As he watched, another joined it maybe a klick away from the first. Within the breem there were a total of three shimmering lights all dancing in their own way. The tension among his fellow troops was near a fever point by then. One even began muttering an old protection oath from Kalis. He'd never really believed the old superstition that a violent death made it a difficult for the dead to return to home, and he'd never seen a frame-less spark and yet...the appearance alone – they looked like sparks. But if they were then wouldn't their energy show up on scans? Before anyone could panic further, though, the little lights stopped their dances and faded like dying embers, and Screech quieted again. Tension he hadn't recognized faded, but part of him was sad to see them go. They hadn't acted hostile, and their dances had almost made him smile despite the tension and fear.
The bluffs remained dark for only a short time though. Soon enough, Screech shrieked again when a light, a new light colored pale yellow, began dancing on the horizon. Something about its dance was different, though he couldn't put his digit on what exactly. It was something in the way it moved.
"Scan it!" he barked.
The trooper with the scanner did so, uttering an oath when he got a hit off it. It was a real spark signal!
"After it!" cried the name-calling trooper. "It's an intruder!"
He broke into a run. Screech shrieked again. The light seemed to wobble in answer, like it was startled or hurt, but it recovered so quick he swore he'd only imagined it. The bobbing dance resumed.
"Spite! Get back here!" he hollered. "That's an order!"
Spite ignored him. He ordered him back again, but his orders fell on malfunctioning audials. Within the breem he had vanished over the nearest bluff.
He growled. Idiot.
Spite didn't understand why the others weren't going after the light. It had a spark signal – therefore it was one of their kind and could be an Autobot trying to spy on their movements. Lord Megatron would be displeased if any of the remains or creatures here fell into the wrong hands. If this Cybertronian were a spy, and he assumed it was, they needed to be dealt with. Quickly. So he kept following the light, over bluff after bluff. This thing was not getting away to report back to whoever it worked for. He got within a klick or so of it. But, no matter how hard he gunned his engine, the light never really seemed to get any nearer, like its speed canceled out his. Somehow. Well, something interesting to report to Shockwave – whatever or whoever was making the light, it wasn't as concerned about burning its reserves to stay ahead as the Autobot resistance was. One light meant one individual, and it could mean another cycle-former like that Autobot glitch. Another Exodus survivor maybe? If he could capture one of those that could get him a major promotion.
Then he wouldn't have that sucker Killzone telling him what to do.
He shot towards another bluff. The light was so close, seemed to have stopped just atop the next bluff. Just a little faster!
He shot forward, relishing the sensation of flight for a brief few astroseconds. He hit the ground on the other side of the bluff. There it was, still doing that weird bobbing motion but staying where it was. He slowed. It looked like it was...waiting for him. Weird. He transformed, stalking forward. He drew his weapon. He thought through the bright pale yellow glow he could make two fainter lights of vibrant emerald. Now, this close, he could hear a strong buzzing noise.
The ground trembled beneath him.
The light cackled as the ground opened up beneath him and then laughed as he fell a good fifty feet into a pit. He tried to move, but couldn't. The buzzing, laughing light perched right on the edge of the pit. Through his fritzing sight and the bright glow he thought he saw a tiny dragon. The buzzing started up again, and the glowing creature flew down to land on his chassis. He could see it better now. It wasn't big, but it looked like those annoying four-winged insects that flew around in seasonal swarms. Feathery antenna extended back from an insect-like helm merged with a Draconian's, iridescent dark blue-green mesh sparkling under the creature's own light – and it wasn't just producing one big light he noticed. Its entire body was lined with light emitters, from its antenna tips to its wings to its blade-sporting tail, all glowing a pale yellow. Its mouth, opening, revealed a set of serrated daggers.
The creature spun. He felt something sharp dig into his neck cables. Stalking forward, the creature sank its fangs into the cables, a tube-like projection lapping up the leaking fuel from the open wound. He shuddered internally, revolted. Disgusting! The creature was feeding off him like some kind of sick butterfly! How could anyone think these beasts were intelligent? Warnings flashed in his processor of a foreign substance seeping into the wound, a depressant of some kind, slowing down his processor and nerve endings rapidly. Anesthetic was the identification just before it took full effect. At least, he thought as the world faded, he wouldn't have to feel the little beast licking his wound. That was gross.
So gross.
He had not fed for weeks. The last time – well, that probably could've gone better he mused. Catching him had been easy enough – moderns were a superstitious lot when it came to floating lights – until he'd somehow managed to escape his trap, wounding him. He had modified his traps from then on out. But to taste warm, pre-processed Energon again at long last – it was enough to make him give little squeaking chirps of pleasure, forcing his glossa deeper into the wound. He wanted all of it, right then, to gorge on the feast he'd caught. He could feel his strength returning with each lap. He'd seen others like it not too far from here. Perhaps he could lure another...yes, that would last him for some time.
He pulled back after a final lap, wiping his snout clean with one of six paws. The prey remained unconscious. No, no, he scolded himself. A big haul like this moron had to be rationed. Onyx only knew when another one would stumble into his traps, 'cause more often than not he caught some of those tiny, squishy natives. If the fall didn't break their necks, he removed them, put them close to the nearest road or pasture so another squishy would find them and maybe, just maybe, warn their friends not to go after the "float-y lights." Their lobhadh would foul up his traps, give them away to the real targets. But his systems alerted him again, droning that they were still running on only thirty percent power. Chirping, he began to lap up the leak again until nanites began to seal it. He pulled back again, cleaning his snout. The nanites would seal up the wound until he needed it open again. He moved to the other side of the neck, opening up another slit. More blue flowed out. Eagerly he lapped it up.
He would not let this prey escape. Fuel was scarce here, and he was not welcome by either of the warring packs. In that scenario, you took fuel wherever you could get it. Wasn't like it was his fault that those fuel sources (and others) were dumb enough to fall for the same trick over and over again. That was their stupidity, not his.
But that stupidity, when it worked on the right target anyway, was beneficial. He wasn't about to go out there and scream to the skies that a floating light was just a lure to catch dumb moderns.
It followed the coordinates Ravage had provided, fighting the homing instinct that would fly it straight into the storm on its way to the great flying den. It wished it could see properly – the damage the she-devil had inflicted would need to be corrected for it to hunt at full capacity again. Hopefully the Red Wheel would not protest too much, or be too nervous around it to help. Compared to the screeching Grey Flier, the Red Wheel was kindness incarnate.
It screeched softly on spotting something on the horizon, tilting its helm to one side. Little lights, colorful but faint, flitted around in an unknown dance. Pinks and oranges and red and violets and greens swirled and skipped. They were beautiful, bizarre, fascinating. What were they? it wondered.
"Púca..." growled the she-devil in a language it could not translate. "We cannaet do anything for them. Dinnaet follow them."
"Them?" it wondered.
The she-devil growled and refused to clarify their nature, merely saying to follow them was to become one of them in a tone that bordered on woeful. Though curiosity burned wild in its spark, now more than ever, it heeded her words. It passed them by, continuing on its ramrod heading. It could smell the troops now. But as they left the little lights behind it thought it could hear faint cries and weeping coming from them, and one or two growls.
Location: Area Fifty-One, Hangar E
Exact Geographic Coordinates: Unavailable
Local Time: 12:00 P.M.
He wasn't sure he liked that Onyx had put "hunting coding" in him. The Beast Prime had explained what it was at length, but all through the explanation all he could see were downsides. The most dangerous downside, Magnus's lesson on sensory multi-tasking, would be rendered moot the instant that stuff kicked in. He didn't see how it was useful unless you were a Predacon in the distant past, not a modern mech busy fighting a war that required far more processor power. He could get dog-piled easily. Way too easily. But Optimus had argued that Predacons were social hunters, much akin to Earth's lupine species, proved by archaeological evidence and Onyx's own testimony. To find one hunting alone, like Grimwing, was a rarity. And he would not be hunting alone, he argued with a soft chuckle. Ratchet would never allow that.
He still didn't like it. That was too much assumption. What happened if he got isolated by the enemy? What if they cut him off? What then?
'I am not telling you that will never happen, Smokescreen.' argued Optimus. 'There will always be that possibility. Megatron's goal is to kill you. Isolating you would be the simplest means of accomplishing that.'
He almost jolted. Optimus was rarely ever that blunt. He'd never been one to sugarcoat something but frag – just to hear him say it.
'Onyx gave this to you to better your focus. To be distracted during battle is as dangerous, if not more so, as bearing a singular focus.'
Dissatisfied, he emitted a low rumble tinged with a faint hiss. He glanced at Prowl. His older brother was, he knew, steering Arcee through the maelstrom that was an angry General Bryce and royally peeved Fowler over comm's. He suddenly envied Prowl's dispassionate, computeristic perception of the world. Sensibilities had never bothered him as much as they had him or Blue. If only he could hand him the hunting code so he could weigh it against how he'd been before, like what the art of the dog headed guy in the Egyptian tomb had been doing. Prowl could determine whether the risks outweighed the benefits. But you couldn't weigh coding. All he could do was describe the effects, and this sounded more like something to discuss with a fellow beast.
Like Grimwing.
He rose and slipped outside, where the Thunderbird himself was out on the tarmac sitting Indian style, in the darkness mirroring the night sky above onto a piece of old metal with some paint lent to him by Mr. Rowland. He didn't notice his approach. He stayed behind him for a moment, getting a quick look at his progress. Faintly painted behind the stars were forms he was unfamiliar with, matching none of the constellations he knew of.
"Hey, Grim?"
His helm jerked back. It was good to see his optics revealed at night when during the day they remained firmly hidden.
"Ah! My apologies. My attention was elsewhere, Prime. Is there something I can do for you?"
He shrugged, avoided the question. He asked if he could join him. Grimwing had qualms about it, but he was focused on him now, not the sky. Bright yellow orbs peered at him through the darkness.
"...Something troubles you."
He didn't deny it.
"How do you control it?" he wondered quietly.
Grimwing understood without any clarification. "As with any talent or skill – through rigorous practice and acceptance. To fear one's nature is to fear oneself."
He glanced sharply at him, bewildered. How had he known he was afraid?
"Your plating is tense, your field is tight and constrained, your gaze uncertain." he explained with a smile. "You think that is not simplicity itself to read?"
He looked away, guilty.
"It is more productive to conquer fear than to run from it, Prime." Grimwing continued in that quiet voice of his. "To lack courage is to invite fear with open arms. Invite fear, and you invite weakness. Invite weakness, and the grave chill will take you."
'We gave you courage, boy,' Onyx growled. 'Do not squander it.'
He didn't have the spark to answer back. Grim was right. Onyx was right. But he was afraid of the hunting code, afraid of what it made him think and want to do, afraid of the risks it brought with it. In his honest opinion, a gift wasn't a real gift if it was two-faced and might pose a risk to allies he said. He didn't want to hurt anyone on his side, and certainly didn't want to think of anyone on the opposite team as a...food source. At that, comprehension dawned in the Thunderbird's gaze. A sympathetic smile blossomed. There was deep knowing in his yellow optics.
"Heed the words of my tribe then, Prime." he said. "Coyote is always out there waiting, and Coyote is always hungry. If you wish to defeat him, you must confront him, master him, tame him – not run from him. Run, and he will always find you. Confront him, and he cannot run from you."
Cryptic, his words, and far from the straightforward advice of Optimus, but he thought he understood the message without needing a breakdown of it. Razorplume's warning to the Wreckers echoed in Grimwing's voice. "Coyote" was just Grimwing's way of understanding the same coding that had run rampant in Divebomb. He nodded. He didn't remove himself though. Being around the Thunderbird was somehow calming. That, and he wanted to be out in the open to hear the Iron Will's engine when it neared home. After Jack's call to update about some place called Knocknarea and a three-headed monster, they'd dipped back into radio silence. He hoped they were okay.
Smiling, Grimwing resumed his artwork. He didn't say a word, fearful of breaking his focus. Little by little, as another hour trickled by, the stars above came to life on the sheet of metal. Breathtaking, he mused, what he could create with just some spare paint and a piece of scrap metal. Another constellation slowly took shape behind a grouping of stars:a young man's head, two feathers extending from a band. A bow was added, and a quiver. Some of the constellation was familiar too – parts of Orion the Hunter he could make out. Curiosity built. Were these Navajo constellations? Cool.
"What constellation is that?" he wondered.
"Átsé Ets'ózí, the Son." Grimwing said. "He is young, a new-blood, but a warrior and protects his people."
The smile he gave him didn't take much interpretation. In him, Grim saw this young guardian hunter.
"Can you show me another?"
"Of course."
He set to work again. Dot by dot another grouping of stars formed. Behind them was added a ghostly image of a young man, quiver on his back and also wearing feathers. A partner soon joined him: he looked the same in appearance, but bore no weapons. Instead, he had a sash and a belt from which hung small pouches, each a faint star. He waited until the work was done to ask who they were.
"Naayéé' Neizghání dóó Tóbájíshchíní," came Grimwing's answer, bewildering him completely. "The Hero Twins, Monster Slayer and Born for Water. One is a mighty hunter and slayer of evil creatures that plague the world, the other a gentle healer. They knew violence, but also compassion. You are both Twins, Prime. You are a hunter, a warrior, but are too a healer. Their father was the Sun, their mother Changing Woman."
Something clicked in his processor. Certain words lit up in a pattern. Miko's words came back to him: "...something called the Dragon Hunts..."
"Grim..."
"Yes?"
"Who told you this?"
"The story-tellers of my tribe."
He pressed further, "And where did they hear it?"
Grimwing proved unable to provide an answer. He admitted these stories had been passed down for many, many generations before he had ever been adopted by the Navajo people. He had simply recorded them as a show of gratitude and to preserve them for the future, to teach others their lessons. He had taken the fantastical tales as their mythology owing to impossibilities like a star giving birth to a human child, or a girl growing from infant to adult in mere days. Symbolism hung heavy in their stories; it always had.
"Have you ever heard of the Dragon Hunts?"
Grimwing confessed to know nothing of them. He had lived in relative isolation for thousands of years. The only hunts he knew of were those conducted by his tribe's hunters, or those of the Europeans, and those were centered on the local fauna. What, pray tell, did he know of these Dragon Hunts?
"Not a lot," he admitted. "But thanks to Miko, and now you, I'm starting to get an ugly picture of what they were."
The loud roar of an engine met his audials then, faint and growing louder by the minute. He turned east. Out in the distance a set of lights approached, fast and loud like a semi coming in to land. He rose as the Iron Will slowed and headed for the hangar where it sheltered. Transforming, he bolted after it, leaving Grimwing to think over his words and continue his art project. He skidded to a stop just on the threshold of the hangar. The hatch ramp came down to meet him. Inside, he heard four sets of thuds: three heavy, one a faint pitter-patter of shoes, coming in a sprint. Air escaped his neck vents, only then realizing he'd been halting his fans. Miko was okay then, thank the Allspark. Ultra Magnus came out first, looking battered and dusty but none the worse for wear, and holding the – no. They'd got the Apex Armor back?! Wheeljack followed him in a similar state. Miko had mentioned something about a cave collapse. That he wanted to know the cause of. Bulkhead followed just behind him, looking much better but still having a few scrapes and dings on him, some of which looked like claw marks, but he almost jerked back and cried out on noting that one side of his face was hideously clawed and his audial was a sparking wreck. He swapped modes. He rushed forward.
"Bulkhead!"
He examined what was left of the audial receptor and the comm. link embedded within, careful not to touch it. Concern warred with fury. Ratchet needed to see this. This was ugly.
"What did this?"
"What's black and red and rabid all over?" hinted Bulkhead.
"The Gwyllgi..." he snarled.
From over his shoulder he saw Miko come down the ramp, walking with a smug swagger in her step instead of running, something held behind her back. He didn't care about that as much as the two dozen cuts and bruises on her arms, legs, and face.
Oh, June was gonna kill. Kill him, revive him with Dark Energon, and kill him again for good measure. No way was she avoiding a visit to the resident human nurse with all those wounds. The on-site clinic was closed at this hour. Oh, he was so dead! Worse than dead!
'Ms. Darby may be upset, but she lacks the capacity to deal you any harm.' Optimus reminded him.
'Don't ruin my panic! She'll find a way! Trust me!'
He rushed forward to check on her, holding a hand out for her to climb into. She did so, persistently keeping the thing behind her back out of easy sight.
"You okay?" he wondered.
She snorted at him, insisting it wasn't as bad as it looked. "Besides," she continued. "I got a present for ya!"
The thing behind her back was revealed. He let his jaw drop. It was soiled with dirt, covered in rust, and only a fragment – but that she had it at all!
"Is that what I think it is?"
Her fierce grin made him grin back. She didn't even seem to realize she was injured.
"Meet what's left of Scorchmark, better known as the Ellén Trechend. 'Cons got the rest of it, but they were sloppy this time. Left some bits and pieces behind. Tah-dah! Your present! Well, this and the Armor."
She held it up to him, grinning, but he refused the gift.
"You hang on to it for now, Wrecker. I don't wanna lock up on you." He turned to address the Wreckers: "You guys head back to the hangar. I gotta get Miko to a healer. And hope said doesn't healer order Ratchet to de-limb me."
Magnus nodded, a touch of sympathy in his tight field as he walked by.
Her arm retracted as her eyes rolled. Unwilling to put her down (and not trusting she wouldn't run off it he did) he placed the little Wrecker onto his pauldron and began the walk towards the barracks where June and her son were staying. Something in the air felt...different now though. There was a heat that hadn't been there before, like the air around him was smoldering at a low broil.
'...What is that?'
Uneasiness pounded in the Matrix. Optimus refused to answer. That...didn't bode well.
The look Grimwing gave him as he passed was anything but cheerful when he spotted Miko's present.
*Prime...* he warned.
*I know, I know.* he said. *I'll wait a while before I try anything with it.*
*Good.*
He kept moving.
Decepticon Warship: Nemesis
Time: Unknown
Location: Unknown
It paced in the flight bays, growling. It wished Ravage would feed updates on the interrogation and debriefing of the little ones. It wished it could hear through the ship and into the chamber where the little ones were. As much as it did not like them, a part of it hoped they came to no serious harm. Lord Megatron valued loyalty, and if he gleaned even a whiff of disloyalty the offender was dealt with swiftly and completely. At least according to the soldier busy washing the mud and dust from its body. This soldier, Killzone, was not like the rest. He did not fear it to the extent of the others, and it had treated the howling bird with more courtesy than the others at the site. That was not to say he was still rough and uncouth like the other soldiers, for he still bore a bias, but he seemed to understand it was an individual, not a mindless attack drone. He even, perhaps, understood it to a certain degree.
More mud was washed away.
"Would you hold still?" the trooper scolded. "Pit, you'd think your trods were on fire."
It stopped pacing.
"I'd take you straight to the doc, but he'd throw a fit if you walked into his lab all grime-y." said Killzone. "Pit, he'd do that if you walked all over the ship, even here. Same goes for anyone. Only Lord Megatron can get away with it." He laughed. "You should've seen the doc when he came back from the East Coast – all battered and scuffed up, throwing a fit over it."
It screeched curiously. Why did he care so much about his appearance? It did not understand. Appearance did not help with the hunt.
"Eh, it's a quirk with him." mused Killzone. "It's not all bad. You learn to live with it. Besides, you never really want for armor polish with him around."
The last of the mud and dust came off. It wanted suddenly for him to give the she-devil a washing. Maybe it would get the smell of the bogs off her.
"There you go. I'll get Knockout in here."
It screeched its thanks. How it wished to speak to him, properly thank him. Ravage's lessons could not conclude fast enough.
Author's Note: Sorry this is a bit short, but this is a "tying up loose ends" chapter, not a main one.
Note for Julien: Optimus is going to be appearing more often. I realize I've kinda been side-lining him. :P But there is the thing that, as he gets more used to his role, the Thirteen aren't going to be quite as "chatty" to him. Like Optimus said, he helps when he's needed, but he'd prefer if Smokescreen take initiative and do some of this stuff without him if it's simple and straightforward.
