Author's Notes: To the guest who left the last review, thank you for reminding me this story exists. I really like this one, but with so many projects and so little time, sometimes a story gets lost in the shuffle. Thank you for enjoying this fanfic so much, and take care of yourself. Life is short. Thank you also to everyone who reads and/or reviews my stories. I hope you guys enjoy this new chapter of "War Cry of Helex" :)

Chapter 8

Liquid Courage

The moon was bright over the night sky, and barely any stars could be seen that night. The ocean's inky blackness blanketed the secrets it held below, but nothing was going to cover up the loud noises of its current intruders.

"YEOW! Stop stepping on my BLAMMO pede!" Warpath yelped at Beachcomber.

"Sorry, brother. There isn't much room on this love boat," Beachcomber apologized even as he continued scrambling to maintain his balance.

"Stop calling me love boat!" Seapray gurgled irritably, /Powerglide, how close are we to the Nemesis coordinates?/

/I…uh…oh yeah! We jus' passed it," Powerglide slurred, still very overcharged from the high grade.

"Oh for crying out…" Seaspray muttered in exasperation, "Alright you two, hang onto your struts. I gotta turn this thing around."

Seaspray then made a sharp turn in the water to go back to The Nemesis, and both of his cramped passengers held onto him tighter to keep from falling off. Seaspray was annoyed at having these two lunkheads on top of him, but this was faster than them trying to walk along the bottom of the ocean. Besides, at some points the deep sea pressure might've actually killed them.

When they arrived, the area looked no different than the rest of the dark murky deep. They would have to dive to locate the ship, which admittedly was easier for some than others.

/I can't remember how to…transform back into…roblot mode/ Powerglide lulled, his flight becoming more irregular as his systems tried to shut down.

/Forget robot mode!/ Seaspray barked, /Just dive. Your body will do the rest./

"Uh…did he just call it roblot mode?" Beachcomber asked.

"We're going down. You two need to hold your intakes to avoid water damage," Seaspray instructed them.

Without giving them another second to think about it, Seaspray transformed, giving the others nothing to hang onto and no choice but to sink.

Warpath didn't like the water very much. He wasn't exactly afraid, just unfamiliar with the experience. Beachcomber swayed his arms as he sank, seeming to enjoy himself and his new semi-weightlessness. Powerglide dove down in plane mode and sure enough, soon transformed automatically. They would have to keep an optic on Powerglide during this rescue mission. Warpath didn't know how much the red mech drank, but clearly it was enough to nearly reboot him.

/Our ETA is 1.2 breems," Seaspray informed everyone over the comm, /Keep your weapons ready and your optics sharp. Decepticons are everywhere. Remember though, this is a stealth mission. Don't let any 'Cons know we're here./

/Oh, don't worry/ Powerglide huffed, /The Oil River Killer won't know we're here. I'll gut him from behind. He won't…he won't see me…/

/We're not here for that, you hothead!/ Seaspray warned him, /We're just here for Bluestreak. Keep your senses, Autobots. We don't have much time./

Sinking down to the ship was taking forever, but at least the heavy yet ethereal environment of the ocean gave Warpath some time to reflect. Powerglide's rage was understandable, but Warpath was worried his friend would do something stupid. It wouldn't be the first time. Even when Powerglide was Strider he had a tendency of getting hurt and taking needless chances, sometimes in that order.

That caused Warpath's processor to bring him back to the orn he chose to leave the Decepticons. He could still feel the mud in his treads, and see Beachcomber holding Strider's inert body, begging for their lives. Warpath didn't expect to live after he made his decision. He expected to die to the Decepticons, or else be executed by Autobots. Being given a second chance at life was more than he could ever hope for, and it was all because he was willing to take a chance on a new friend and make a sacrifice for a stranger.

He realized that was kind of what he was doing now. Bluestreak was a stranger, despite the many vorns they spent working in the same unit. This was also a situation where Warpath might not come out alive. Was he really willing to die just to save a 'Bot that thought so little of him?

Yes, yes he was. He took a chance on the Autobots, and in turn they took a chance on him. That cycle gave more to him than a lifetime of selfishness and blind obedience ever did among the Decepticons. Bluestreak wasn't a bad person, he was just scared. Everyone was afraid of something, and most had a right to be. Warpath wouldn't hold that against the poor kid.

He just hoped this rescue mission would be worth it. If Bluestreak and the others could make it home safely, then everything would be worth it.

Bluestreak snuck along the hallways of The Nemesis, trying desperately to find a way out. He had trouble going more than a few steps without needing to take a break. While Brawl managed to repair the open fuel lines, many of Bluestreak's internals were still exposed, and he was still in a lot of pain.

After struggling down a few corridors and finding no one nearby, Bluestreak couldn't walk anymore and had to sit down. His intakes were shaky, loud, and sounded full of liquid. He knew he was in dire straits, and might not survive even if he made it out. This wasn't the first time being captured by Decepticons, but this was definitely the worst time. Vortex was an absolute psychopath.

Sitting alone, with nothing around but purple walls and dim lights, Bluestreak found himself going in and out of recharge. Staying conscious was laborious, and Bluestreak didn't think he could do it much longer.

His processor dreamed of simple things. Petting a deer that day he went with Hound and Mirage on a nature walk a few months prior. Doing paperwork with Prowl. Getting into minor arguments with various Autobots. His family back home in Praxus. So many swirling barely coherent memories dancing inside his mind…

His processor was so lost in just trying to keep him alive, Bluestreak didn't even register the pede steps getting closer to his location until it was too late. Bluestreak was soon awakened however by a loud frightful scream.

"AAAAHHH! Autobot!"

Bluestreak bolted awake just in time to see a Decepticon turn to run from him, slip on a puddle of Bluestreak's leaking energon, and fall down on his faceplate! Bluestreak tried to get up to run, but his joints were locked up, and he was forced to sit there and wait for whatever happened next.

"Help! Autobot! Security!" The Decepticon howled frantically.

Bluestreak managed to register that he was looking at one of the Stunticons. The blue and white one with the red face. What was his designation again? … Oh yeah! Breakdown! That was his name.

"Come on! Where is everybody! He might get away!" Breakdown complained to the air.

"You…should…comm…" Bluestreak's strained, static-filled voice rasped.

Breakdown jerked back in surprise and looked down at Bluestreak again. Bluestreak was somewhat amused, being reminded of the time Carly saw a spider. How was this guy a killing machine again?

"Stay where you are, Autobot!" Breakdown ordered as he pulled his gun from subspace and aimed it with both hands, "You better tell me how you got in here, or I'll blow your helm off!"

"Com…bat…cons…brought me…here…" Bluestreak tried to explain.

"Speak up!" Breakdown snapped impatiently, "I can't hear you!"

"Please…need…medic…" Bluestreak feebly requested.

Breakdown, not realizing exactly what he was looking at, leaned down to examine the Autobot closer.

"Hey, you look like a zombie from the Late Late Show," Breakdown commented, "Are you a zombie now or something?"

"No…" Bluestreak breathed, "Please…help me…"

"Megatron says we can't help the enemy unless he says so."

Bluestreak didn't reply for a moment, both from weakness as well as the incredulity of the situation. Breakdown was a component to a giant murderous abomination, and yet he spoke like a child reciting lessons from his teacher. Bluestreak remembered now that the Stunticons were barely an earth year old at this point; newsparks from Vector Sigma. Breakdown wasn't an idiot, he was a child.

"It's okay this time," Bluestreak tried to convince him, "Megatron…said it was…okay to help me."

"He did?" Breakdown asked skeptically, "Would he say so if I asked him?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Ask him."

Bluestreak was bluffing, obviously, but he also knew Breakdown was a very fearful mech and might not want to bother Megatron. He was betting on that fact, and the wager was his life.

"Uh…" Breakdown took his sweet time processing this new information, and poor Bluestreak feared he'd offline before the big lummox made a decision, "…So, I definitely won't get in trouble for helping you?"

"That's right," Bluestreak tried to smile, but he was sure it looked more like a wince.

"Well…" Breakdown hesitated, "I…I guess I could take you to Motormaster. I know Hook would be better, but I don't like to go to the medbay by myself. Those guys are creepy. I'm sure Motormaster will know how to fix you up."

"You won't…be by…yourself," Bluestreak tried to reason with him, "I'm here. Please just…just help me…get to…"

Before Bluestreak could even finish his sentence however, Breakdown picked him up and started walking toward the Stunticon common room. Bluestreak wanted to go to someone more qualified to repair him, but then again maybe this was for the best. The Constructicons wouldn't be as easily fooled by Bluestreak's story as the Stunticons were. At least Bluestreak had a slight chance of surviving if he could outsmart his opponents. He just hoped Motormaster was as easily convinced as Breakdown, or else his circuits were fried.

The four minibots lurked in the dark hallways, searching every room that wasn't locked for Bluestreak. When they couldn't open a door, Beachcomber would listen to figure out who was inside each room. Out of the four of them, his audial receptors were the most advanced. This was likely due to his linguistic-based sigma ability. Even with Beachcomber's talents however, they still couldn't find Bluestreak.

Despite being the one to insist on this mission, Powerglide was proving to be more of a liability than an asset. He stumbled a few times, the high grade in his system threatening to send him into stasis lock. Twice Warpath had to put a hand to Powerglide's mouth to keep him from talking or making any noise that would alert the Decepticons of their unwanted intruders.

Seaspray stayed at the front of the team, his laser pistol out and ready should the need arise. Despite his clunky big feet and awkward alt mode, Seaspray was more than capable when the stakes were high. He was a reliable friend, and a skilled warrior.

Warpath's processor kept wandering even as he knew he was supposed to be focused on the mission. He wished he had Seaspray's ability to stay on task. All he could think about during this entire operation was how the four of them going on a rescue mission together felt like old times. Nostalgia was probably the wrong word for it, since he didn't really pine for the trenches of Topitron or the blackouts of Iacon. Still, there was a comfortable familiarity when working with these three mechs specifically. Warpath felt lucky to be their friend.

When they made it to an open door that led to a large room, Seaspray motioned for Beachcomber to eavesdrop on the Decepticons inside. Beachcomber stood still and quiet, at first the picture of serenity, but after a few seconds his face took on a look of concern.

Beachcomber pointed to the room and then flicked his thumbs together, the agreed upon signal that meant Bluestreak was in there and he wasn't alone.

"Who is it?" Powerglide said out loud, forgetting to use the comm.

Warpath blocked his mouth again and hissed "Shhh!" into his audial. They waited for a second to see if anyone noticed them, but no one had, so they relaxed.

Beachcomber snuck up to the door and looked inside. It was a small hallway leading to the actual room, so he would have to go further inside to see anything.

He picked up his pedes slowly, one after the other, trying to walk as quietly as possible. He then peered inside to try to find Bluestreak, and what he saw horrified him. Bluestreak was on a couch, surrounded by three Decepticons, and he was clearly injured. The slashes and scrapes were clear indications of torture, and it seemed like Bluestreak was barely online.

"Well what the frag am I supposed to do about it?" The biggest Decepticon harshly asked.

Beachcomber tried to remember their names, but these were newer Decepticons in Megatron's army. He could remember the gray one was named Wildrider, but he didn't remember who the convoy and the blue and white guy were. It was the convoy that yelled at his subordinates.

"I dunno. Fix him?" The blue and white guy shrugged helplessly.

Beachcomber wished he could just run up to Bluestreak and hug him, protect him from the evil mechs that now controlled his fate. He couldn't rush this though. He had to wait and hope a moment came where he and his friends could save Bluestreak. He just had to be patient…

"Outta my way!" Powerglide's voice shouted from the other side of the hallway.

Beachcomber turned around, only to fall on his aft when Powerglide walked straight into him! Both mechs fell to the ground in the Stunticon common room, and Warpath and Seaspray ran after them. All four of them then looked up at the Decepticons, realizing that their cover was blown.

"Powerglide, you idiot!" Seaspray burbled angrily.

Motormaster, Breakdown, and Wildrider just stood there and stared for a moment, not really sure what they were looking at. Bluestreak, however, knew exactly what he was looking at. The minibots were his rescue team, and now they were in need of rescuing as well.

"Are those more fragging Autobots?" Motormaster demanded to know.

"Y-Yes…" Bluestreak spoke up before anyone else could answer, "They're part of the plan."

"What plan?" Motormaster asked in exasperation.

"I told you, Motormaster," Breakdown interjected, "Megatron said we have to help this Autobot."

"But why?" Motormaster asked, more confused than angry.

"It's…a top secret mission…" Bluestreak lied on the spot, "We're…traitors."

"What!?" Powerglide exclaimed, scandalized.

The others, however, were quicker to pick up on what Bluestreak was doing, and decided to play along.

"Yeah, we're BAM joining your side!" Warpath loudly shouted, "We have BOOM top secret information Megatron wants."

"Do that again!" Wildrider excitedly cheered.

"Uh…do what again?" Warpath asked, confused.

"Make those funny noises!" Wildrider eagerly ordered, "Like you did before! You're funny!"

Warpath scowled then, realizing he meant Warpath's turrets syndrome tics. He was glad no one could see most of his face through his mask, because his annoyance might blow their cover.

"I'm…commanding the mission…" Bluestreak told them, "I won't…let them tell Megatron anything…if you don't…repair me."

"Oh alright fine, you crybaby!" Motormaster snapped at Bluestreak, "Dead End! Get your aft in here now!"

It took a few minutes and more shouting from Motormaster, but Dead End eventually left the inner sanctum of his room and joined his brothers in the common area, a book in his hand and a glare in his visor.

"What now, oh glorious leader?" Dead End asked sarcastically.

"Megatron wants military secrets," Motormaster said curtly, "Fix this fragger so he'll tell us what we want to know."

"Wait, so, is fix a euphemism for torture or-?" Dead End began.

"Just repair him, stupid!" Motormaster commanded.

"Don't worry, Megatron said it was okay," Breakdown added.

"Oh, well if Megatron said," Dead End dramatically deadpanned as he rolled his optics, "Give me some space."

With that Dead End turned his servo into a soldering iron and began working on Bluestreak's injuries. The Autobots didn't expect this turn of events when they came to rescue their comrade, but they weren't complaining.

"Now, as for you fraggers," Motormaster turned his attention to the minibots, "Why is that red guy sleeping on our floor?"

Seaspray, Warpath, and Beachcomber looked down to see that Powerglide had finally passed out. He was even snoring.

"Sorry about that, my mech," Beachcomber stammered apologetically, "He had too much high grade before we left. You know, uh, turning turncoat takes a lot of liquid courage."

"Uh huh," Motormaster blankly replied, "You fraggers know what the frag he said?"

"Powerglide was drunk," Seaspray translated.

"Oh, good idea," Motormaster nodded approvingly, "Dead End'll be a few minutes. You fraggers can come over to the table and drink with us. I'm sure that'll loosen some of those secrets you got in there."

"I don't think you're supposed to tell them that," Breakdown quietly reminded him.

"Shut up!" Motormaster snapped, "I'll tell them whatever I want! If they're really gonna be Decepticons, then they're gonna drink with us, their new friends. You guys don't have a problem with that, do you?"

"Not at all," Seaspray replied for the group.

"Good. Then get over here," Motormaster ordered.

Truth was, Warpath did have a problem with this. It wasn't the fact that he'd have to be sociable with Decepticons, or that they were wasting time. No, the problem was the high grade itself. Warpath was a recovering high grade addict, and he feared relapsing if he drank a large amount, especially with a rowdy group like this. High grade kept him from thinking too hard about the war, but it became its own problem once he actually had friends that could be affected by his bad behavior. He couldn't get out of this though. Bluestreak's life depended on them keeping up the ruse for just a little bit longer.

Breakdown served everyone a cube and poured the high grade all the way to the top. That wasn't how such volatile liquid was meant to be consumed, yet Motormaster downed it as if it were nothing. Warpath wondered if they always drank like this. If so, it might explain some of the Stunticons' behavior.

Warpath drank as if he did so every day, without even a moment's hesitation. As much as he didn't want to drink, another part of him really did want to.

When the high grade hit his taste receptors, the flavor was somewhat familiar. It tasted like low caste swill, the kind they served in Helex. It was just like the first time he drank with his sire, the orn when he got his final frame. The things that concerned him so much back then seemed so silly now, and this junk energon lulled his mind back to that wonderfully simple time.

"Bleck! This slops tastes like gasoline!" Seaspray complained.

"Part of it is gasoline," Breakdown informed them, "Drag Strip and Wildrider make this stuff. I'm not sure what all they put in it, but it grows on you."

"Yeah, like a fungus," Seaspray muttered.

"I think this is the batch where we poured liquid butane into the mixture," Wildrider grinned.

If Beachcomber's paint wasn't a perpetual blue, he might've turned green. He and Seaspray looked down at the "energon" they were expected to drink like two kids being forced to eat moldy broccoli. Warpath, however, was already halfway finished with his cube.

"So, what made you fraggers decide to join our side?" Motormaster asked, "You finally come to your senses or something?"

"You sure do like to say fraggers, don't you?" Beachcomber couldn't help but smile, "Reminds me of when Red Alert got his final frame. He cursed all the time, thinking it made him a big mech. To be fair, most of his cursing was directed at things that scared him."

"Nothing scares me!" Motormaster proudly declared, "I'm the roughest, toughest, gruffest king of the road you've ever seen! Your sissy boy Prime can't compete with me!"

"Is he supposed to try?" Dead End dryly asked as he worked on Bluestreak's frame.

"Shut up, fragger!" Motormaster barked, "Anyway, why did you leave the Autobutts?"

"Heh heh, Autobutts," Wildrider giggled.

"You of all mechs should understand," Warpath replied, already working on his second cube, "You're a ZAM truck-former, and your friends are car-formers."

"So?" Motormaster asked.

"So, you know how it feels to be BANG different," Warpath observed, "You don't fit in. You don't belong. Everybody looks at you with POW distrust. It's the same for me. I'm a tank-former. There are no other tank-formers in the BLAST Autobots. They don't really want that baggage around. It makes them feel bad. So, we came to you."

Beachcomber could tell that Warpath was already a little tipsy, as his posture was way too relaxed for the situation they were in. He continued to drink and his optics smiled at their impromptu hosts. Beachcomber wondered how much of this was for their cover and how much of it was sincere. One thing he knew for sure though, they had to get out of this situation quickly before something really bad happened.