ImmaLoser, the first chapter was inspired by Soundbluster's SG TFP series, which might I add is amazing. The art is beautiful and vivid and the story is just as great. It doesn't follow the usual TFP timeline, but it does have some references to it. It is unique and overall, a great read. Definitely recommend for those of you who have not read it.

Here's the next chapter! I'll have the next one out by next week. Enjoy y'all!

Nightwing moaned softly as she felt a light tap on her shoulder. She didn't need this right now. She had barely got any rest in the past cycle, constantly being stretched thin in so many directions because of her work. The femme shifted, almost succeeding in sinking back into recharge until someone pinched her sensitive wings.

A sharp jolt of pain shot through her, and she rolled over with an undignified squeak, her frame hitting the floor with a thud. Her systems sputtered to life, optics blinking online as she glared up at the figure standing over her. Her optics focused with a whirr, narrowing as she took in the sight of—

"Whiplash?" she muttered, her optics widening in shock. "How in Primus' name did you get in here?"

Whiplash grinned, leaning against the back of her couch as he held up a cube of pale pink liquid. He took a long sip, savoring it before answering. "Nice to see you too, Wing."

The senator's optics widened even further as she caught sight of the drink he was holding. Her engex. It was an expensive drink that had been gifted to her by another senator when she had attended their party. She wasn't one to keep such "gifts", but she loved engex almost as much as she loved her Conjunx and energon treats.

"Is that—are you drinking my engex?!" she demanded, inwardly wincing at her tone. It was sharper than she meant it to be. She pointed an accusing digit at the cube in his servo. "Do you have any idea how much that costs?"

Whiplash took another sip, completely unfazed. "Oh, this?" He swirled the liquid around in the cube lazily. "I figured I deserved a little reward."

Nightwing let out air through her vents, forcing herself to calm down. "How did you get in here?"

Clearly disappointed that he got no reaction, he smirked. "You left the front door unlocked," he jerked a digit in the general direction of her entrance.

She did not-

Nightwing was thoroughly unimpressed. "That's not an answer," she said, surveying her trashed suite, suddenly self-conscious of the mess around her from the fit she threw just a cycle ago. She had yet to get it cleaned up. Perhaps she could get her suite remodeled. "I have security systems, you know. Good ones."

Whiplash grinned wider and leaned uncomfortably close to her. "And I've got skills you haven't even seen yet. Getting past some security systems? Easy. You should be grateful I'm not a thief."

Nightwing stepped back, irritation flaring hot again as her systems finally shook off the last of her grogginess. "Maybe I should consider that possibility, seeing as you're drinking my engex without permission."

Whiplash waved his free servo dismissively. "You can bill me for it. I'm sure AVL will put it on the tab."

What tab? AVL had credits of their own, sure, but she provided a good portion of it. Probably 98% of it. Nightwing vented, finally giving up on scolding him. "Fine," she muttered, rubbing her optics. "I don't have the energy to argue about this."

"Clearly," Whiplash retorted, optics scanning the state of her apartment. "You look like you haven't recharged in a while."

Nightwing ignored his remark and focused on the real issue. "What are you doing here, Whiplash?" She fixed him with a tired but pointed look. "And why did you decide to break into my apartment?"

You've never done it before, and I don't see why you'd start now, she thought.

Whiplash grinned again, as though he had been waiting for her to ask. "First of all, you're welcome," he said with a dramatic bow. "Your miner's safe. Got him stashed in one of AVL's finest safe houses, right here in Iacon. Since you didn't answer your com, I decided to come here and update you."

The femme opened her intake to speak when her optics were drawn over his shoulder to the holo-screen mounted on the wall—one of the few things that had survived her wrath. The screen was on and playing the news.

Her optics narrowed as she read the headlines scrolling across the screen.

**Massive Explosion Rocks the 23rd Level of Iacon.**

Massive explosion? What the-

Whiplash turned slightly, following her gaze. "Oh, that." His tone was oddly casual for something so catastrophic. "Yeah, that was me."

The senator placed a servo on her hipplate. Her patience, already stretched thin, was wearing down even further. With her free servo, she rubbed her faceplate, trying to ward off the impending helmache she felt coming.

Whiplash had on more than one occasion blown stuff up on his missions and she hadn't minded it unless stealth was absolutely necessary. He had never done something this drastic before, nothing this massive. Blowing up an entire block? That was a major issue.

She wasn't so concerned about the mess, but more so about the miner himself.

"Please tell me," she said witheringly, "that the miner is fine and not mentally scarred for life after your "little" explosion on the 23rd level."

Whiplash shifted his position against the couch, completely unbothered by her biting tone. "Eh, he'll live," he said nonchalantly. "Probably a little rattled, but he's got a roof over his helm, energon in his tanks, and no enforcers up his aft. I'd say that's a win."

"A win?" she repeated incredulously. "Whiplash, there was a massive explosion! How in the Allspark did you manage to make such a mess out of such a simple job?"

Whiplash raised a ridge. "Simple? Oh, come on, 'Wing. Since when is anything ever simple in this city?" He flashed her a grin. "Besides, I didn't start the explosion. I just, y'know, encouraged it a little."

Nightwing did not allow herself to explode.

One-

Primus, give me strength, she thought. "Encouraged it? How do you even—" She stopped herself, not wanting to dive too deep into whatever reckless nonsense that Whiplash had gotten into.

Two-

"Relax, 'Wing. It was just a little extra something to keep the enforcers busy. Gave us the perfect opening to sneak the miner out. He's safe, the Functionists got their aft kicked, and I got to blow something up. Everybody wins."

"You could've gotten caught," she pointed out. "And worse, you could've gotten him caught. Do you have any idea what they would do if they caught you?"

Three-

Whiplash's expression darkened. "I know exactly what they'd do," he said coldly.

The femme met his dark gaze. She knew he did care about the mission; about the bots he was smuggling out of danger. He just had a reckless way of showing it.

Four.

Nightwing vented softly. "I can't believe you did this," she muttered.

"Hey," Whiplash said. "You asked me to get the job done, and I did. That's what I'm good at."

"Next time," she said firmly, "maybe try not to blow up half a city block."

Whiplash chuckled. "No promises, 'Wing. No promises."

Despite all his recklessness, she couldn't deny that he got results. It was more than she could say about herself in the Senate, or even the other AVL agents.

Whiplash circled around her and plopped down on her couch, placing the cube of engex on the cushion. Nightwing pursed her derma tightly at the sight of the expensive liquid resting on her beloved couch. She most certainly did not approve, but she bit back a remark.

He crossed his arms over his chassis, his faceplate taking a more serious look. "We need to figure something out, Wing," he said. "We're out of room. You're squeezing more and more bots into our safehouses, and it's getting dangerous."

Nightwing vented, crossing her arms as she stared across the room, staring at nothing in particular. She knew he was right—he had every reason to be concerned. They were stretched thin. The AVL's network of safehouses in Iacon was already at capacity, and with every new bot they brought it, they were running a greater risk of discovery. One small mistake, one slip-up, and it would all come crashing down.

"I know," she muttered, moving to sit on the far end of the couch, as far away from Whiplash as possible. "I'm working on it."

The AVL turned to her, his optics narrowing. "Working on it how, exactly?" he asked, his tone just a shade short of accusatory. "Last I checked, we're still stuck here in Iacon, overcrowded and boxed in. Tarn's bunker is an option, but we need a solid plan to get hundreds of strays and wanted bots across the city and all the way out there without attracting attention."

It wasn't as if she wasn't aware of the issue. But trying to move hundreds of bots, many of whom had bounties on their helm or were already being actively hunted, was no easy feat. The bunker in Tarn was supposed to be far larger and much safer but getting there… that was the problem.

"It's not that simple, Whiplash," she said quietly. "You think I haven't been trying? Every route out of Iacon is either blocked or crawling with enforcers. Even if we did get them out of the city, we'd have to deal with checkpoints, surveillance, and the risk of one of them panicking and blowing the whole thing."

Whiplash leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Yeah, well, trying isn't good enough anymore, 'Wing. You know that. We're at a breaking point. I don't want to have to tell any more bots that we can't take them in because we don't have the space or the resources. I only helped the last bot because he was deep in scrap."

Nightwing didn't want to admit it, but he was right. Every time she handed over another stray bot to the AVL, the more she risked them getting caught. How long could they keep this up before something went horribly wrong?

"I've been negotiating," she said at last. "With one of the transport guilds. Quietly. They might be able to move them under the radar—small groups at a time, over the next few cycles."

Whiplash raised an optic ridge. "A guild?" he asked doubtfully. He had every right to doubt her, considering their reputations. "You really think you can trust them? Most of them are in the Functionists' pockets. All it takes is one bribe, and our entire operation's exposed."

"I don't have a choice," Nightwing said sharply. "I'm running out of options. The transport guild is the only one I've been able to reach without drawing too much attention. We move a few bots at a time, disguised as cargo. It's risky, but it's better than waiting for someone to blow the whistle on the safehouse."

Whiplash leaned back again, letting her words sink in. For a klik, he said nothing, optics scanning her faceplate, searching for any signs of weakness or uncertainty. Nightwing held his gaze, keeping her expression as neutral as possible.

"Fine," he said eventually. "But you better make sure that this guild is as discreet as you think they are. We can't afford to take any more risks than we already are."

"I know," Nightwing replied, her optics lowering as she sighed. "I'll do what I can."

The mech vented, sounding tired as he got up. He turned to look at her, studying her faceplate one last time before leaving her suite. She let a puff of air and buried her faceplate in her servo, pressing her digits hard against her optics.

She wished with all her spark that her Conjunx Endura was here with her. That he could walk through that door instead of Whiplash. That she could hear his voice again, feel the comfort of his presence and the warmth of their bond.

But he was gone.

Gone.

Her spark twisted painfully, and she lowered her servo, her optics staring blankly at the mess of her apartment. They had been so close—closer than she had ever thought possible.

They had fought side by side, dreamed of a better Cybertron, and whispered promises to each other in their shared quarters. He had been her anchor, her strength, the one who made all the uncertainty and danger worth it. Together, they had believed they could change had believed they could win.

But the Functionists had stolen that from her. They had stolen him from her.

Nightwing clenched her fists, feeling the pressure build behind her optics, but she refused to let her lubricants fall. She had shed enough for him—too many. And she knew that no matter how much time passed, no matter how many missions she completed or bots she saved, that wound would never fully heal. Crying wouldn't help her, nor would it bring him back.

In kliks like this, she wished that he could be here with her, even for a nano-klik. He would know what to say, how to comfort her. He would have a plan, a solution to their overcrowded safehouses. He would tell her to keep fighting, to keep going, because that's what they did—together.

She wished he were here to share this burden with her.

She wished she could hear his voice again, even just once.

But wishing wouldn't bring him back. And she knew that. She had known it for a long time. The reality of his death had settled into her spark, one she had learned to carry as she moved forward, solar cycle after solar cycle. But some solar cycles, like today, the weight was unbearable.

Tomorrow, she would fight again. Tomorrow, she would keep moving, keep pushing for the change they had both wanted.