Nightflow ignores yet another furious message from his creator. It is so rare for him to be let out of their home and he takes any opportunity to go on adventures. He walks down the streets in the center of Praxus, eager to explore the new surroundings. The large public square in the center of the city-state is a marvel to behold, and he walks closer to study the crystal garden. The sunlight shines brightly in the beautiful crystals, and he gently touches one, hearing its fragile chime.
His attention gets drawn to the fountain in the garden's center. He recalls what his carrier has told him about it―his creator had donated it to Praxus the year following a significant crisis in their society as some kind of peace offering to the Joint Investigation Unit.
He engages his cloaking device and sneaks undetected through the force field to look at the plaque.
Donated by an anonymous benefactor in the year 1812694.
May we never forget.
And they won't.
He has participated in the annual event with his creator since he was old enough to stand. It is a whole month where society comes together and remembers one of the darkest chapters in its history. During that month, there is peace. No armed conflicts. His gran-creator and creator spend that time negotiating with the other organizations. Their enemies, but not during that time.
A sixth sense has him looking up into the sky. He scans it for threats and begins to run away from the center of the central public square. He deactivates his cloaking device to save its energy, searches for somewhere to hide and opens the door to a small shop. A chime announces his entrance, and he looks cautiously around. His gaze meets a surprised young face, and he smirks when he recognizes another youngling.
His creator's aircraft lands on the public square. He engages his cloaking device again while the youngling seeker is distracted by the arrival and chuckles when the seeker spins around to see nothing there when he touches a light blue wing.
"We need to hide." He says as his creator's large group of elites leave the aircraft.
The youngling seeker hesitates―staring out at the elites―but Nightflow knows they only have a little time before the search for him begins. He tugs insistently on the seeker's hand to lead him further into the shop, away from the expansive windows. "Come."
"Who are you?" The seeker asks curiously as he follows him away from the windows.
Nightflow looks over his shoulder at the question. "Nightflow."
The youngling seeker looks at him with searching optics, somehow managing to actually look into his invisible optics. "Who are they?"
He smirks mischievously. "The Polyhexian Cartel."
Dozens of his creator's elites pass by the shop's expansive windows and the seeker ducks further down behind the bookcase they are hiding behind in reaction. Nightflow snickers as he watches Turborazor and Ripstorm walk past the shop, clearly coordinating the search effort for him with his creator.
He loves these games.
Turborazor and Ripstorm return, and Nightflow's spark fills with gleeful anticipation when they move to open the door to the shop.
The chime sounds, and he hears a whimper from his new friend as the seeker curls into a ball to supposedly protect himself from a threat. He looks bewildered into the frightened optics. There is nothing to be frightened of, but his creator's elites are so close now that he doesn't dare say a word.
Heavy steps sound as the two elites enter the shop, and he hears them talk together, their voices an exasperated grumble as they search for him.
He snickers silently.
His friend looks at him. "They are looking for you, aren't they?"
The whisper is barely audible and he sees the accusing look in the optics. He wants to say something to reassure his new friend, but the heavy steps are coming closer as the elites meticulously search the shop for him.
Then Turborazor steps around the bookcase and points his weapon at the black and light blue seeker. The elite's optics are narrowed with annoyance and narrow further as he stares down at the huddled youngling seeker.
"Up!"
Nightflow watches the interaction with bated breath as his friend slowly rises from the floor and then holds his hands up in surrender. There is a surprised glance at where he is hiding in plain sight but invisible and he sees so many emotions in the widened optics.
Ripstorm walks around the bookcase from another side and they are boxed in by the two elites. No escape. One sound or movement, and they will know he is there. There is silent communication between the two elites, but whatever they plan to do gets interrupted by the sound of the door chime.
"Lower your weapons!" His creator orders in his cold, commanding voice.
The order immediately gets followed, and Turborazor and Ripstorm step back in respect as his creator walks closer.
"Stormwind, creation of Thundercracker and Skywarp?"
Nightflow looks curiously at his friend at the change in his creator's voice. It is so rare to hear him like this in public. The low, gentler voice is almost only used when his creator speaks with his carrier when his creators are alone.
He sees the seeker―Stormwind―nod in response and watches the light blue wings twitch.
His creator's optics lose some coldness while a gentle smile briefly passes over his lips.
"You have nothing to fear, youngling." His creator says as he crouches before Stormwind.
Jealousy stabs at his spark at the way his creator speaks to Stormwind. It is so rare his creator shows him this kind of affection. Why is he doing it to this seeker?
"Who are you?"
"Torment. I knew your creators before you were born."
The game is no longer fun and Nightflow chuckles to draw his creator's attention to him. Torment looks sharply at him, his optics filling with fury. "Show yourself, Nightflow!"
He does as ordered with an unrepentant grin on his face. "Hello, Creator."
He can feel Stormwind's disbelieving stare and fills with pride.
"C-creator?" The wariness in his friend's voice makes his pride grow.
His creator is one of the strongest sires on the planet―and one day, he will become just like him and lead their organization.
"Why do you keep running away?"
He scowls at his creator's question.
"Home is boring. You and gran-creator never let me participate in anything interesting." He answers sullenly.
His creator sighs in exasperation. A sound he has gotten used to hearing by now, and it annoys him to no end. He is not a sparkling anymore. He can take care of himself.
"You are not old enough to be a part of it. Your frame still needs to be fully grown. I have told you that you will be ready when you receive your first weapon. Until then, you will remain by my side and follow my orders when we leave home, or you will not get to leave at all."
"But Creator!" He protests at the unmistakable threat.
"No buts! Your carrier is deeply worried about you! What if you had been taken prisoner by our enemies?!"
He scoffs. "If I can sneak away from you, I can sneak away from them!"
The sound of sirens interrupts their argument. He and his creator walk over to the shop's windows and look out at the public square where two of the Joint Investigation Unit's Anti-Terror Special Response Teams arrive and transform, their weapons out and ready to combat his creator's elites. He senses the lethality return to his creator. The few emotions Torment had shown vanish behind his commanding presence as he once again becomes the heir to their organization and no more a worried creator.
With a firm hand, he and Stormwind get lead out of the shop. Half of the enforcers immediately switch their target, their weapons now aimed ominously at his creator. He gets pushed toward his creator's aircraft with a firm command and follows it without question.
The time for games is over.
He looks over his shoulder with worry as his creator, without a care for the weapons aimed at him, leads Stormwind over to the enforcers and allows himself to be almost surrounded by them. His creator is alone against the two teams of twenty enforcers while his elites are held at gunpoint and unable to assist him should anything happen.
Ripstorm grabs his arm hard and forces him into the aircraft. When the elite releases him, he hurries over to the nearest window to follow the interaction between his creator and the enforcers. Stormwind gets pulled out of sight behind an enforcer when Torment calmly hands him over, and then his creator backs away from the enforcers with a salute and hands held innocently out at his sides.
He runs to the ramp as his creator―closely followed by his elites―steps into the aircraft, and he gets picked up and held in a firm embrace as the ramp closes and the tandem rotors come to life to bring them out of Praxus and to safety.
"I'm sorry I frightened carrier by going exploring." He murmurs against his creator's neck.
Torment sits down in a seat while soothingly caressing Nightflow's back. "You know your carrier always will forgive you, but I hope you understand how dangerous it was for us this time. There is a good reason we avoid Praxus if we can."
He nods in answer, savoring the tender moment between them. He leans into Torment's chest in contentment and allows his thoughts to wander―but when a question forms in his mind, he looks up curiously at his creator.
"Where do you know Stormwind's creators from?"