Duskwalker @duskwalkertfp - Tumblr Blog

Old Fic

Feeling nostalgic, going through old files, and found this thing. Re-read it, and honestly am still pretty happy with it. Felt it wouldn’t hurt to post it so that I have it archived in more than one place. Freakin’ 50 pages long though.

Transformers Prime: Return to Cybertron

A tentative peace has been restored to Cybertron, with Iacon serving as the capital of the planet. Though there is still distrust between multiple factions; Autobot, Decepticon, Predacons, and returning neutral forces, life has begun to move apace on the planet.

The war is not yet forgotten, and there are still unknown elements in play. With Team Prime responsible for the governing the planet, and individuals from all factions going missing, an old enemy returns.

Chapter 1

The Great Cybertronian War was over and peace was once again free to reign over all Cybertronians; at least that was the line used over the vid feeds and scrolling across the holoterminals and boards. Duskwalker was not so sanguine about the end of the war. Yes in a way peace had been restored. Duskwalker now had the medical seal she had studied and worked so hard for, but she knew it was a fragile and translucent peace. One all too easily broken.

Still. She wanted to do her part to help keep peace a reality on Cybertron, even if most of the bots she met found her chosen alt mode strange, or even disgusting. It was only to be expected. Not every Cybertronian cared for resembling an organic creature and even though there was a small population who had beast-like forms like her own, and the Predacons were now also rising from the Well, many of Cybertron's people were intolerant of anything organic. Duskwalker had chosen a feline species with brown coloring and gold optics. The brown was rich and pleasing to the optics in contrast to the sharp, watchful, and predatory nature of her golden eyes.

Much like the creature she mimicked in metal Duskwalker was a quiet and solitary femme; rarely going out for a 'fun time' with others of her age. Her systems was overly sensitive to high grade and she didn't want her processor foggy in case of a medical emergency. Even in 'peace' life was not so quiet. The factions may have been 'disbanded', but the line in the sand was still there. Autobots and Decepticons were enemies no matter how nicely they played together in public and sometimes the colors of their badges became too vibrant. Coupled with high grade and bad tempers Duskwalker had already had her fair share of cases. Most of them Decepticons in fact. Running a faction-free medical facility, in hopes those who needed care would come for it rather than allow themselves to fall apart, came with a rather long list of risks and one of those risks was constant visits from Enforcers. The new law enforcement organization created by Team Prime.

On average Duskwalker expected three to four visits every week, but thankfully all her encounters with the Enforcers up to this point were relatively positive. Ultra Magnus had a policy that they were to contact the Medical Facility prior to arriving so as to alert Duskwalker of any risk her patients may be under, but this time a young mech, by the designation of Nightdrive, had shown up with nary a whisper from the primary Enforcement Office. That, along with the almost ticking mannerisms the mech was showing, had Duskwalker on high alert. He was young, white and blue, and of moderate size. Neither the largest, nor the smallest she'd seen. Still he was larger than she was and would pose a risk against her if he decided to make a point of 'throwing his weight around'. She was familiar with him, as the mech had often come by and loomed when she'd released a few of her patients. He'd never done more than stare at them, but that alone was enough.

“I'm sorry, sir, but the medical records for my patients are confidential. I see no point in reiterating this point, Nightdrive, but unless you have a warrant I'm not surrendering any information to you on Skystrike,” Duskwalker told the young Enforcer for what felt like the twelfth time. Nightdrive was too interested in the Predacon within her secondary treatment room.

“He's a filthy Predacon who tore up three Auto-, erm, citizens just outside the Rusted Joint two nights ago. I have it on good authority that he instigated the fight. I just need the evidence to prove it,” Nightdrive initially began with a derisive tone of voice, but by the end he seemed reasonable and calm after he nearly let slip that the three mechs had been Autobots. “You know what those Predacons are like. Primus, I don't even know why they're coming up from the Well. They're no better than animals. Stomping around and crushing everyone underfoo-”

“Animals, you say?” Duskwalker interrupted. “Strange. You make it sound like such a terrible thing. To be 'animalistic' in one's nature, or form.” Her tail thumped against the floor to emphasize the word 'form'. Nightdrive's optics brightened in embarrassment.

“That is to say, uh... Not that you-” he stuttered. Duskwalker cut in.

“Officer Nightdrive while I understand your interest in pursuing justice, I will not release medical records of any kind without a warrant. Furthermore, as this is not the first time and you seem intent on continuing to harass certain patients of mine when I release them, you are hereby banned from my clinic. I will be informing Ultra Magnus of your conduct and the ban I am placing on you. Now. I have work to do, so if you would be so kind and show yourself out, I would be most obliged.” Duskwalker stood up with a sharp motion while Nightdrive ground his denta.

“That slag-sucking scrapheap,” Nightdrive said, his voice grating and aggressive. Duskwalker said nothing, nor changed her stance. Nightdrive could be as angry as he wished, but she had no intention of changing her mind nor allowing him anywhere near Skystrike. She had asked Nightdrive to leave and she would only ask once. Duskwalker was a small femme, but she was not helpless.

“Where is he? What room is he in? That slagging pit-spawn is going to pay for what he did to Dirttrack and the others,” Nightdrive got up onto his pedes with a snarl of his engine. “What room are you hiding him in, femme?” The mech stepped around the side of Duskwalker's desk, a nasty snarl creasing his face plates.

“Officer you are out of line. Leave now or I will call the Enforcers and have them escort you off the premises,” Duskwalker kept her voice even, calm, and remotely triggered the locks on her three treatment rooms. Nightdrive's right optic twitched and he sneered.

“You slagging N.A.I.L., coming back to Cybertron only after the war is over. They should have never let any of you touch down. Now you think you can tell an Autobot what he can or can't do? I fought and lost energon in that blasted war all so you sniveling lot could have a home. Just get out of my way and maybe I'll forget your tone,” Nightdrive took a step to move past her desk, and Duskwalker side-stepped in front of him. No one threatened her patients. No matter who they are, were, or could be connected to. This was her medical facility and she had every intention of keeping those who trusted her safe.

“Get out of my way,” Nightdrive told her, enunciating every word, and clenching his servos. Duskwalker said nothing in response. Remaining between Nightdrive and her treatment rooms. Perhaps it was not the wisest decision, but until help arrived, she was the only one capable of stopping him. Both Skystrike and her one other patient, a Decepticon, were in stasis. Neither were capable of defending themselves. She did not trust that Nightdrive would only attack Skystrike if he found the other, prone, Decepticon in her primary treatment room.

Nightdrive seemed uneasy about her silence, however. She could smell the heat coming off of his frame and hear the whining of his coolent fans. His lip plates twitched, an optic spasmed, and he came to a decision. He reached out a hand to shove Duskwalker out of the way, but she stepped out of his reach and turned so he couldn't touch her. His engine revved and Nightdrive clenched and relaxed his hands several times.

“Fine, femme. If you want to protect that thing from getting what it deserves then I'll just have to give some of it to you first,” Nightdrive's optics brightened and his hands shot forwards to grab Duskwalker's shoulder guards. Duskwalker dipped to the side and the mech overextended. She thrust her hip into his abdominal plating and gripped his shoulders using his own momentum to throw him, crashing, to the ground on his back.

Nightdrive grunted, but before he could push himself up Duskwalker transformed a section of her arm and revealed her Electromagnetic Pulse device. With a quick dial-down of its settings she crouched down and placed it against Nightdrive's neck plating. A quick shock later and Nightdrive was still. He wouldn't be down and out for too long. Only long enough for his systems to reboot themselves, but it was long enough for her to contact the Enforcement Office and have them come pick him up.

Duskwalker checked his systems with her scanner, just to be safe, and then sat down at her desk. Keying in the code to contact the Enforcers. She had to take a few deep vents of air to settle her own systems. She hated being put into this situation and hopefully Ultra Magnus would understand.

“You've reached the primary Enforcement Office. How may I direct your call?” a black and red mech with orange optics asked when he appeared on the screen in front of her. Duskwalker sat up a little straighter, her tail curling close to her chair.

“My designation is Duskwalker, medical class, and one of your officers came to my clinic demanding medical records and the whereabouts on one of my patients. He had no warrant and proceeded to attempt to force his way into my treatment rooms. I barred his way and he assaulted me. I have neutralized him and am requesting assistance in removing him from my premises.”

“Understood. What is the officers designation?”

“Nightdrive,” Duskwalker said, keying up the vid feed from her security cameras to send over.

“Hmm...” the mech mumbled, “says here in his files that he is currently on probation for disorderly conduct.”

“Probation or not he is currently unconscious on my office floor,” Duskwalker informed him. “Patching the security feed through now.” She sent the prepared data package and waited as the mech received the file, and proceeded to watch it. His optics widened momentarily and then returned to normal. Duskwalker's tail tip flicked gently as the mech cleared his vocoder.

“Putting you through to Ultra Magnus now, ma'am,” the mech said and a moment later the screen blanked out to the Enforcer shield emblem. Duskwalker sighed. Once all was said and done she intended to have a nice, long, quiet session either reading a new article that had come out. That would have to wait, however, as the screen flickered back to life and a rather severe looking blue and red armored mech's face plates loomed in front of her. A very disappointed and unhappy expression on his face plate.

“Duskwalker, this is Ultra Magnus. I will be departing and arriving at your clinic shortly. Are you in any danger at the moment? I have Enforcers nearby who can assist you if need be.”

“No, but thank you for the offer, Sir. Nightdrive's systems will need a short time to reboot. He is in no danger. I have scanned him and everything is working as normal,” Duskwalker said. Nightdrive would be fine, and she could use the peace before Ultra Magnus arrived to get everything in order for the paperwork she'd have to fill out after all this. Ugh, Ultra Magnus had a thing for paperwork.

“Understood. Ultra Magnus out.”

–

Duskwalker remained standing between the Enforcers and the doors that led to her treatment rooms. They were busy carrying Nightdrive out on a medical sledge she borrowed them, but her systems were still on high alert. That or she was just paranoid. She wasn't entirely sure.

Ultra Magnus had taken the time to ensure that no excess damage had been done to Nightdrive and that Duskwalker had acted in self-defense. He agreed that Nightdrive simply needed time for his systems to reboot and as such he would be kept in a holding cell at the primary office until they did so. He also assured her that there would be a hearing on Nightdrive's behavior and heavily implied that he would no longer be an Enforcer. Duskwalker felt it was just as well. Not everyone was cut out for the job they chose and to be an Enforcer was a huge responsibility. Perhaps a different responsibility to her own, but a big one none-the-less.

“I understand you do not wish to press charges?” Ultra Magnus questioned her. He had chosen to remain an appreciable distance back so Duskwalker would not need to crane her neck up in order to look up at him, but also, she thought, so he would not be towering over her. Duskwalker appreciated that. She was not comfortable with mechs, or femmes, beyond a certain size. Mild claustrophobia caused her some troubles when it came to bigger frames.

“No, thank you, but no. No real harm was done, but he is banned from my clinic from this point on. My patients trust me to keep them safe when they are under required stasis; particularly those who are former Decepticons, or Predacons. I cannot, and will not, allow hot-tempered mechs or femmes with revenge on the processor to storm in here,” Duskwalker just could not quite relax. She was uncertain of Ultra Magnus' view on neutrals like herself. Was he like Nightdrive? Or was he like Ratchet and her other former instructors? Open to everyone, and anyone, no matter their faction or build?

“Understood,” Ultra Magnuss said. “On another note, you have my personal apologies, Duskwalker. I had not realized how driven Nightdrive would be to find the mech responsible for damaging his friends. The incident at the Rusty Joint was not solely Skystrike's fault. The three other mechs involved were drunk, as seems to be the case more and more often, and provoked Skystrike into a fight.”

“A fight he finished,” Duskwalker commented. “If you need to speak with him I understand, though currently he's in required stasis in order to assimilate the new parts I've installed and heal the welding. If you require his medical records I will require a warrant, but you know that already... I wouldn't have been so stubborn with Nightdrive, but normally you contact me before coming to speak to a patient and have a warrant when necessary... he also seemed twitchy, too interested in Skystrike to be doing a simple investigation.”

“I understand and you made a wise decision. I will need to speak with him, as he did use excessive force and there are extenuating circumstances, The mechs may have thrown debris at him, and attacked first, but his reaction has placed all three mechs in intensive care at another medical facility.”

“Hmm,” Duskwalker hummed. “I was hoping you could tell me more about what happened. Skystrike dragged himself up to my door, heavily damaged, but he fell into stasis before I could question him about what happened. As you know in my report to you that night. One whole wing was nearly torn off and there were several deep gouges in his armor. At first, I thought another Predacon had attacked him, but then I found blaster burns... and before Nightdrive came in I found something lodged in his armor.” Duskwalker slipped behind her desk and opened a secured drawer. It slid open and she lifted a containment unit out and offered it out to Ultra Magnus, who moved closer to inspect what she had.

“When I found it I placed it in this containment unit,” Duskwalker told him, sliding the unit into his servo. Ultra Magnus was also very careful about not just taking things from her hands. His servos were large enough to dwarf half her arm and it made her uncomfortable for someone to reach for her. “I made sure not to touch it, whatever 'it' is, so that any evidence on it was not destroyed. I was going to contact you when Nightdrive entered.”

“Have you discerned its function?” Ultra Magnus asked while Duskwalker stepped back again to give herself a little space.

“No. I'm not a member of the Enforcers and anything I found out about it wouldn't be admissible in court. Ratchet should be more than capable of telling you anything you need to know once he has a chance to look at it.”

“Yes, of course. Apologies. I have grown too used to speaking with Ratchet,” Ultra Magnus gave the unit to another of his officers, but evidently, he wasn't finished. He signaled for the others to leave, but remained behind. Duskwalker vented softly. Here came the riot act; it happened after every few instances of violence at her clinic. Mostly they came from panicked patients, or from people out in the street harassing her. Duskwalker settled herself to sit and listen. Ultra Magnus meant well, as did all of Team Prime. They risked everything to restore Cybertron, it was the least she could do by listening to Ultra Magnus' concerns. That didn't mean she had to agree with him.

“In the last seven rotations this is the third instance we've been called to your clinic, Duskwalker,” he began.

“To be fair,” she interjected, “the second 'instance' was called in by a passer-by. I had the situation under control. Downpass was just drunk and needed to stay the night. He doesn't know his own strength and that wasn't the first time he was a little over zealous with his greeting.” The mech had practically squeezed her in two and a 'concerned' Autobot had called the Enforcers to stop the 'rampaging' Decepticon from crushing the 'poor little neutral'.

“Be that as it may,” Ultra Magnus continued in his no-nonsense voice, and Duskwalker fought off a slight smile. “You realize, and understand, you place yourself at risk by running this clinic. While your reasoning is admirable, and more students are graduating from the medical academy, few have true experience and are, therefore, required to work with a medic who has earned their Seal.” Ultra Magnus was always successful at making Duskwalker feel guilty when he brought this point of fact up.

To receive her Medical Seal Duskwalker had to prove, not only her skill, but her knowledge in the medical field. Spanning from simple check-ups to machine maintenance and the workings of a Cybertronian spark. Furthermore, she had to provide evidence of all the years she had practiced. From that point she had to work her way through written, oral, and practical exams under four other medics who had their own Seals. It had been a challenge and one Duskwalker had relished. She wished to become a Medical Engineer and Scientist, but to do so she had to reach the highest of standards in all three areas: Medical, Engineering, and Science. Only then could she apply to become more than just a standard Medic and start experimenting, in controlled spaces, with new medical technology.

“Your professors,” Ultra Magnus said, “and examiners speak highly of your skill, experience, knowledge, and disposition. Cybertron has been rebuilt, repopulated, but it is not yet whole. Team Prime is doing all it can to assist in wholly renewing our home, but they cannot do so alone. If you will not choose to move your practice, or join with a larger clinic, then please allow me to station an officer here, at your clinic, to protect you and your patients.” Duskwalker pressed an ear-like audio back and grimaced. The idea was one she didn't like the taste of, and it was one Ultra Magnus would not give up on.

“I appreciate your concern, sir,” she said, and Duskwalker meant it. “I just don't happen to agree. If I place any kind of guard outside, or inside, it will turn away mechs and femmes who need help, but do not want to be found. I have always complied when a criminal has come to my clinic, and it has only happened two times, but the majority are just those who do not trust anyone of the opposite faction. A neutral clinic gives them a safe middle ground. Skystrike would have never gone to a medical facility that belonged to either side, but he did come here and that's important. I also am in good standing with Lord Predaking... besides, I did agree to take on an intern. I just don't allow her to work night hours...”

“Because it's dangerous,” Ultra Magnus said in a deadpan voice.

“Because it's dangerous,” Duskwalker agreed, “and Blip has no combat training.”

“And you do?” Ultra Magnus questioned. An optic ridge rose a marginal amount.

“I couldn't protect my patients near a battle field if I didn't. You'd be amazed, too, the kinds of things you could pick up from mechs and femmes who're grateful that a medic could get to them in time.”

“Mmm,” Ultra Magnus' systems hummed quietly. “I will discuss this matter with Ratchet. Perhaps he can talk sense into you. He is correct. You are undeniably stubborn. Until then we will place a restraining order on Nightdrive. If he returns, please call the Enforcement Office and do not handle the matter yourself.”

“I can't promise that,” Duskwalker reminded him. “I won't let my patients be left undefended, but if the option is available, I will call for assistance. That's all I can do. I don't look for trouble on purpose.”

“Some would say otherwise,” Ultra Magnus intoned dryly. Duskwalker vented softly with exasperation. “However, since you do not wish to press charges, I will allow you to return to work. I expect forms D54, T9, and JX-21f to be filled out and filed with the Office within the week... I will also contact you tomorrow to speak with Skystrike about the incident at the Rusty Joint. Have you contacted Lord Predaking to inform him of Skystrike's presence here in your clinic?”

“Yes, I did so immediately once I had Skystrike stable,” Duskwalker nodded her helm. “He seemed satisfied that I had Skystrike's best interests at spark.”

“Alright. I will contact you tomorrow then,” Ultra Magnus agreed in farewell and turned, exiting her clinic.

Duskwalker sighed, heavily, and moved to her desk to begin filling out the paperwork he had requested. She'd have to get some recharge tonight at the very least. She'd already been up for four days working on the extensive spark damage her former-Decepticon patient had taken, coupled with the emergency repairs Skystrike required... she was exhausted. She could go for another couple straight days, but it wouldn't be wise. So paperwork, rounds, some time to herself after checking in on her patients, and then refuel and recharge...

Maybe after a long soak in a hot oil bath. Primus, that sounded like heaven.

–

A crash pulled Duskwalker out of recharge late during the night cycle. She sat up and swiveled her ear-like audio sensors. Another crash had her up on her paw-like pedes and moving to the lift that connected her lab to her habitation suite. Someone was making a mess in her clinic, or attacking one of the mechs within her treatment rooms. She could initiate her security system, but she wanted to be certain it wasn't just a drunk, a prank, or someone who desperately needed help. A quick check of her cameras quickly dismissed all of those possibilities and Duskwalker vented, readying herself for what could be a tricky situation.

The clinic lights were mostly out, save for the running lights. Duskwalker moved silent and slow from instinct and her dark brown colorings helped to blend her into the dark. Her optics adjusted and she made her way from her lab to the lobby, behind her desk, and approached Skystrike's room as a grinding shriek announced the Predacon's transformation sequence being initiated. Skystrike was in no shape to transform. She needed to get in there and place him back into stasis. At least that was the plan. Whether she would be capable of doing so, or he would allow her to even get near him, was questionable.

So, she moved cautiously to the door as the bangs and crashes escalated. Duskwalker was thankful that she had her other patient in induced stasis, being regulated by a machine, because she really didn't need anyone getting trigger happy. Still, to be safe, Duskwalker checked on his status via her up-link with the clinic's systems. His levels were optimal. He'd be able to leave in the morning once she brought him back around.

A soft pneumatic hiss sounded far too loud as the door opened. The noises within stopped and Duskwalker lowered herself, not quite crouching down, and made sure not to look up into the mech's optics. Predacons were no-more animals than any other Cybertronian, but all Cybertronians could go into battle-mode and Predacons had different triggers than 'bots or 'cons did. Eye contact was one of them, she'd learned, and when they woke up in a strange environment after going offline damaged, they could be volatile. Anything she could do to help make it easier for Skystrike to keep control of himself, and not attack, she'd do so and thankfully Duskwalker's tactics normally worked, but she also didn't want to appear weak and prompt an attack either.

“My designation is Duskwalker,” she said calmly despite the growling of the Predacon. “I am a medic. You are in no danger. Lord Predaking has been informed of your presence here.” She remained where she was, keeping her hands visible, and watched him. Hot air rushed out of his systems in great snorts of steam. Skystrike was a dragon-type predacon, though he was exceedingly small, and he took up a large percentage of the room. His mass filled one entire corner, and his tail draped over one of her counters. It was the equipment toppling over that had woken her.

“Medic,” he said in a raspy growl. “Duskwalker. Medic.” That he was tracking that much was a good sign, though her treatment room had seen better days. Duskwalker remained by the door, not wanting to push him when he was doing so well. He needed time, and Duskwalker had all the time in the world.

“Yes. You were damaged and crawling up to my door. I brought you inside, but you lost consciousness. You've been here for two days. Your wing and armor need more work. I have more parts coming tomorrow for you. Once I've finished, you'll be able to leave, but for now you're safe and you need to rest.”

“Rest,” Skystrike mumbled, but his optics seemed to whir as he focused on something that wasn't there. “Cannot rest. Envoy, Redtalon, danger... attack. Must report..” His optics flicked up over Duskwalker's helm, and focused on something over her shoulder. His head lowered, his maw opened, and he growled. The vents on the side of his body hissed and more steam escaped into the room while his armor shuddered along his flanks. Duskwalker wasn't sure what was going on, what danger there was, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Ultra Magnus knew about the envoy, Redtalon.

“You are safe here,” Duskwalker said, and would continue to say as often as she needed to, but something more was wrong. Skystrike wasn't focusing on her anymore, instead he began to crouch to the ground and a sudden tension of immanent attack filled the air. Duskwalker went completely still. Any sudden movement and she'd be slagged in quick succession. Her spark felt cold in her chamber, but her words were calm and even, as reassuring as she could be.

“Easy, Skystrike, you're safe. I'm not going to hurt you,” she said, but his optics only briefly flicked down to her, and then back up past her out into the lobby. He wasn't growling at her. There was someone out in the lobby, but how? It should have been impossible for her not to know about another presence. If the camera's didn't catch someone, she would have smelled or heard them. Still, Skystrike was focused on something, and Duskwalker was not about to doubt him.

She turned, preferring to have Skystrike at her back than a nameless foe, and as she did Skystrike let out a deafening roar. The sheer volume of it made her audio's ring painfully practically dropping Duskwalker to the floor as the Predacon leaped over her frame. It was all Duskwalker could do to keep her optics focused on what was going on; she almost missed the crunch of metal as Skystrike bit into something, but she would have never missed the scream afterwards.

Skystrike's jaws seemed to be clenched on open air, but as Duskwalker's audios rebooted she noticed the air shimmering and before long she could see a large mech, nearly Ultra Magnus' equal in size, struggling between the Predacon's jaws. Duskwalker could just make out the dark browns and greens of the mech's frame before the shimmering, and flickering, died. Sound and smell rushed out to meet Duskwalker in a nearly overwhelming amount followed by a splash of energon as Skystrike tightened his jaws and the mech struggled with his opponent. Somehow not only had the mech's form been cloaked, but so had all the scents he carried and the sounds he had made, but how had Skystrike known the mech's location?

The intruder grunted and planted a servo on the side of Skystrike's lower jaw before gripping one of the Predacon's horns with the other. With a growl and rev of his engines the mech began to pry open Skystrike's jaws, struggling to remove the teeth embedded in his armor. Skystrike understood immediately what was going on.

A low rumbling echoed up from Skystrike's chest plating like an avalanche and a white glow rippled up along his flanks until it flashed in stripes across his neck. Duskwalker recognized the light. Skystrike was charging his breath weapon. If he used that inside of her clinic he would burn everything to molten slag, including her other patient. The intruder seemed to realize that as well.

“Slag,” he said and wrenched himself free of Skystrike's maw, slamming his jaws shut, and twisting his head and neck. The dragon was lifted up off of his paws and thrown into the air and crashed against the far wall in the lobby. To her reliefe the wall held, though it was to the intruder's surprise.

“What did you build this place out of, femme?” he questioned, walking towards her while clapping his hands together as if they had somehow gotten dusty. Duskwalker growled faintly, baring her own fanged denta, but the mech didn't stop. Her optics scanned his frame and landed on the Enforcer's emblem on his shoulder plating. Suddenly everything made sense and she could practically smell Ultra Magnus behind this. When all of this was over, she intended to have a long talk with him.

Skystrike's body moved and he pushed himself up onto his paws while a strange fog began to eek out of his maw and drifted over the floor like a mist. Duskwalker sniffed at the air and winced as the Predacon's talons dug into the floor, screeching as they clawed it. The Enforcer turned and stepped in front of Duskwalker, prompting a growl out of Skystrike.

“We need to get you out of here,” he said, stepping back and reaching out his servos. Duskwalker blinked in confusion and squirmed with a yelp of indignity as the Enforcer picked her up and cradled her in one arm; pressing her to his chest plate and turning so she was behind him. Duskwalker pushed against his chest plating, but he only squeezed his arm tighter prompting a rather embarrassing squeak out of her. That squeak caught Skystrike's attention and the Predacon's growl deepened. The mist was quickly turning into a thick, cold, moist fog that chilled Duskwalker's frame.

“Put me down you idiot,” Duskwalker whispered, snarling the words.

“What?” the mech looked down at her. “Look, femme, I'm here to protect you.”

“Put me down now,” Duskwalker repeated, a little panicked this time. Skystrike was readying himself to attack again and Duskwalker thought it was probably because he was trying to protect her too. “I don't need your protection; he isn't going to hurt me!” She whipped her tail and it slammed against his abdominal plating. The Enforcer grunted and flinched a little, but he only adjusted and tightened his grip in response. Duskwalker couldn't break free without hurting him, and she'd already had to defend herself against an Enforcer once this cycle already.

A whistling sound hit Duskwalker's ears before something slammed into the Enforcer's back. It sent both her and the mech flying into the opposite wall, away from Skystrike. The mech hit the wall with his side and he loosened his grip long enough for Duskwalker to squirm away. Her plating rattled along her frame, she hated being touched without permission or warning, but she had to put as much space between herself and the idiotic mech as quickly as possible.

“Skystrike, discontinue your attack. I am not in danger,” she told the Predacon, moving towards her desk again. If she had to she could put up a force field in the middle of the room. “This mech is an Enforcer, sent by Ultra Magnus,” yes he was an idiot, and he had no right sneaking about her clinic as he had, but still. “Stand down.”

“You're trying to calm that thing?” the Enforcer asked, incredulous. “They're no better then mindless attack drones when they start acting like this!”

“Shut down your vocoder you aft,” Duskwalker snapped. The mech blinked in confusion. Her words were too late as Skystrike opened up his maw and unleashed his breath weapon. “Skystrike no, don't,” Duskwalker called, but with sudden awe and mixed relief she realized the weapon he was utilizing was not flame, it was ice.

Frigid air rushed through the room, coating the walls in sparkling frost. The Enforcer's legs were now encased, and frozen, to the floor of the lobby. Skystrike stood up straight and began transforming with a soft grinding sound. That sound told Duskwalker that there were still several transformation seams that required repair, but thankfully his change seemed to cause him no pain, though he did lean slightly against the wall.

“I am no animal, Autobot,” Skystrike said in a voice that was clear and sounded well educated. Duskwalker smiled slightly at the Predacon's clear optics. She could tell that he was tired, but he was in full control of his faculties. That he seemed so calm showed her that the Predacons, as a Cybertronian species, were developing quickly. Soon ignorant bigots like Nightdrive would need to be far more careful about what they said. Hopefully, with some time, all of Cybertron could be integrated with all its people. No restraints, just respectful co-existance.

“You are lucky you were wrong, Enforcer,” Duskwalker informed him. She stood and made her way over to Skystrike. “If he was just a 'mindless attack drone' you, me, and my other patient would be dead. All of it would have been your fault.”

“My fault?” he asked, pulling on his frozen limbs. “I was assigned to protect you. If the slagging Pred hadn't glitched and attacked me you wouldn't have even known I was here.” He thumped his fist against the ice, trying to break it. “Could you s-slagging get me out of this? I can feel my energon freezing in my legs.”

“And let you do something stupid again? And his designation is Skystrike, remember it and be respectful. I won't allow anyone to be derogatory to one of my patients, compute? Furthermore, you nor Ultra Magnus have no right to decide I need protection. That you snuck into my clinic under some rat-fragged cloak, and presumed you knew what's best for my safety only attests to your infinitesimal processing capabilities.”

“Ok, look. The designation is Roadblock and you, femme, really need to relax. Mags' just being cautious,” Roadblock introduced himself and insulted her at the same time. Duskwalker flicked her audio and looked up at Skystrike.

“Skystrike would you be willing to return to your treatment room? You need to give those parts some more time to assimilate and I think some of the welding has come undone,” she couldn't force the issue, but to her satisfaction Skystrike nodded his helm and made his way through the lobby and back towards the treatment room he had been in. With that taken care of she turned and fixed Roadblock with a hard stare.

“I'll be back momentarily to remove you from the ice and take you into the third treatment room,” she told him.

“You c-can't be s-serious, I'm freezing here!”

“The ice your legs are contained in is nowhere near cold enough to damage your primary systems, not for the short period of time I need to be gone to put Skystrike back into stasis. Then I intend to place the clinic under lock down, no coming, no going, and bring you into the treatment room to take care of your wounds and place you under stasis to give your systems a go-over to make sure nothing got rattled.”

“You can't do that; you have no authority to detain me. Ultra Magnus will-”

“You,” Duskwalker interrupted him again, “will stay here. Cybertron may be, currently, under a Military state of control until a proper general election is held and the Enforcers may be a part of that control, but as a medic I outrank you.”

“What a load of slag, you don't outrank me. You're not military.”

“Not exactly,” Duskwalker said. “Once I was given my medic's Seal I technically have a rank outside of the military structure and, as long as you are within any kind of medical facility that I am in charge of, I outrank you, and any other officer. So, in the mean time you will stay and you will be silent until I come back. If you doubt the legitimacy of my statement, you can look it up.” Duskwalker could feel a processor ache coming on, so rather than stand there and continue the argument she turned and made her way towards Skystrike's room.

“Sheesh,” she heard Roadblock mumble. “You can tell she trained under Ratchet.”

Chapter 2

“There haven't been any changes? No fluctuations, pain, discomfort, or strange sensations?” Duskwalker asked the femme, Blackwidow, over the vid screen.

“Not ah one,” Blackwidow said with a broad smile. “Been doin' great thanks t'ya hon.” Blackwidow was a black and red accented femme who was sitting next to a tan and purple accented mech. She was quite beautiful, certainly suiting to her name and the mech was rather intimidating with one artificial optic, but Duskwalker knew them both better then that. They were both Decepticon patients of hers and she was calling to check in on them after Blackwidow's last procedure.

“Remember; you are still not cleared for manual labor of any kind. We need to do a few more sessions before I can give you a seal of approval for work,” Duskwalker reminded them and looked to the mech before giving him a grin. “I trust you can keep her out of trouble?”

“Yes, uff course. Ve vill ensure she schtays out uff trouble,” the mech replied in a heavily accented, yet even voice. He looked over at Blackwidow and twitched his wing while his artificial optic refocused on her. He seemed to be saying 'you heard her, right?' without using words. Blackwidow's own posture changed slightly as though to say 'yes, I did.'

“I'm glad to hear it, Blitzwing,” Duskwalker praised while attempting to repress a smile. It made her face plates hurt.

“We still haven't figur'd out a way t'pay ya,” Blackwidow mentioned, some of the joy draining out of her optics.

“I told you,” Duskwalker objected and reminded, “you don't owe me anything. What I did wasn't really a medical procedure. I'm just glad you got here in time.”

“So are ve,” Blitzwing agreed, his optics remaining on Blackwidow. Duskwalker wondered if he wasn't imagining what might have happened. Blackwidow would certainly not be sitting next to him, as she was now.

“I jus' don't like takin' advantage o'ya like this, Dusk,” Blackwidow insisted.

“We've already agreed,” Duskwalker insisted, “that what I did for you will simply remain a secret and that I would consider that payment in full. Otherwise, I would need to leave, and I've come to enjoy being here and would hate to have to move.” More than that though she felt a cold dread building in her spark. Not even Ratchet knew about –

“Jou haff no need to vorry,” Blitzwing interrupted her thought, “ve vill not inform anyvon vhat jou haff done.” A rapid whirring click-click-click followed as the mech's faceplates spun around. They stopped on a new face, one with a visor, dark pink complexion, and a gap in his upper denta. This new personality surged towards the camera, his fist clenched and slamming on the desk in front of him in anger and threat.

“Unt if anyvon tried anysing I'd srow zem into zhe schmelting vats unt vatch zem burn!” Duskwalker flinched, surprised, at the sudden ferocity, but was left with her mouth open in an attempt to reply as his face plates began to spin once more. This time they landed with a near cackle on a black face reminiscent of a jack-o-lanter from earth. Mouth and optics glowing red.

“Oh!” this personality cackled, “or ve could schtring zem up like puppets unt valk zem to zier doom! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-hah! Oooh, I just luff a good puppet show!” he cackled and once again his face plates resumed their rotaions only to return to the more logical, blue featured and artificial optic'd, personality.

“Jou idiots,” he mumbled, pressing his thumb and index finger at the crux of his optics and rubbing as though he had a processor ache.

“Ya don't have t'worry,” Blackwidow agreed, smiling behind her servo at her mate's antics. “We won't tell anyone darlin'. We owe ya that much.”

“Thank you both,” Duskwalker nodded her helm gratefully, “and remember if your systems read any fluctuations come to my clinic immediately, no matter the time. Medic's orders. Until then, take care of yourselves and try not to be too acrobatic.”

“Ya can count on us takin' care o'ourselves, but tha' last bit,” Blackwidow looked over at Blitzwing, and Blitzwing looked away almost studiously at something on what must have been a far wall. Blackwidow grinned. “We'll see what we c'n do.”

With that the call ended and Duskwalker stood up tall, taking a long moment to stretch. With a vent she carefully cataloged what needed doing that day. She had a meeting scheduled with Ultra Magnus later in the cycle, which she was not looking forward to, about the circumstances of the previous night-cycle with Roadblock and his presence in her clinic. She'd discharged the mech that morning once she ensured his repairs had taken. Prior to that she had also discharged her other patient, the Decepticon, with orders to come back in a few weeks for a check-up. She wasn't sure if he'd come back, but she still put him in her own schedule.

Thankfully Duskwalker had already filled out all the paperwork that Ultra Magnus was going to require of her, including the new paperwork for the incident with Roadblock. She still had some time, though, which was a good thing. Her intern had come in for a few simulated exercises and Duskwalker had to admit; the clinic always seemed a little brighter, a little happier, when Blip was around.

“Blip, how are you doing in there?” Duskwalker questioned, raising her voice slightly as she walked over to the, now empty, third treatment room.

Her intern was a small silver minicon, was working on a holomatter projected mech. It was programmed to show mild signs of transformation stress and it was Blip's job to find and explain the treatment options. Which, for something that could become as serious as Transformation Sickness, were actually as simple as a medical grade transfusion and berth rest. If the strain had damaged the t-cog, and put too much stress on the spark, the treatment wouldn't be quite so easy, but the trick was catching it early.

“Yes,” Blip answered, “would you be willing to check my work?” Blip sent and Duskwalker accepted the up-link uploading it onto the primary screen of the computer in the treatment room. Studying the charts was not normally a time-consuming chance, but if Blip had asked her to look it meant she was concerned she'd missed something important. Which seemed nearly impossible to Duskwalker; Blip's charts were by far the neatest, and best organized, she'd seen from an intern. Of course Blip was her first intern, but Duskwalker had worked alongside other interns before. Sometimes keeping a clean chart and work order was a skill some had to take time to learn. She was grateful that Blip seemed to have a natural talent for it. So far it seemed excellent.

“Why recommend physical therapy?” Duskwalker queried.

“Under normal circumstances I'd say berth-rest, but the readings I got suggested that this was not a case of over-transformation, but rather a case of under-transformation. It seems that this particular mech spent little time transforming, but then transformed a great deal causing stress on his T-cog. So, I believe after repairs, and rest, physical therapy to ensure the T-cog is working properly and to exercise it so that it won't suffer the same amount of strain for what should be regular amounts of transformation.”

“What made you come to that conclusion?”

“Normally I think the t-cog would register a lot of wear if it was over used. Loose or damaged wires, worn or otherwise broken pieces, or even thinning metal, but this one shows a very distinct lack of it and rather than the wires being worn through, they look as though they were blown from their connecting circuitry. After connecting the t-cog to my scanner I was able to get a proper energy reading and a graph on how often this mech transformed. There was a sudden spike in transformations, though nowhere near the norm most Cybertronians go through, before the power to the t-cog surged and then it dropped sharply as though it had lost energy.”

“Very good,” Duskwalker approved, turning off the exercise and loading a new one. She was interrupted when she looked to Blip and noticed her almost crestfallen expression. Duskwalker put down the data chip with the new exercise and knelt down to check on the smaller femme.

“Is something bothering you, Blip? You did wonderfully on the exercise. I doubt Red Alert herself could have done better, or Firstaid.”

“I'm sorry Duskwalker,” Blip murmured, scuffing a pede against the floor, “it’s not the exercise. I thought it was great and I didn't expect the answer I came up with.”

“No? Well, why don't you come sit with me, it's getting close to mid-cycle, we'll talk and refuel. See if we can't figure out a solution to the problem you have on your mind.” Duskwalker invited Blip out to her desk, helping the smaller femme up onto the desk and offering her a mini-con sized cube of energon. Duskwalker settled herself back into her chair and waited, quietly, for Blip to begin.

“It's... it's really stupid,” Blip started, hesitantly, “I don't even know why I let it bother me – and I shouldn't be letting it bother you – I just...” Blip trailed off and Duskwalker took a sip from her own energon, she didn't respond. Instead, she waited patiently for Blip to continue, she was rewarded for her patience as Blip threw her arms up a moment later with a garbled noise of distress.

“Downshock, a classmate of mine in Firstaid's advance class, was an aft and put my mediscanner up where there was no way I could get it on my own. He, and the others, thought it was hilarious; they all had a good laugh at my expense. Then he said that I was completely useless. What was the point in me being a medic if I couldn't reach things? How I'd be a liability in an emergency situation. Then Firstaid came in to start class and I had to ask him to get my mediscanner down for me. Everyone thought it was hilarious, and Firstaid didn't say anything,” Blip sighed and picked up a small orb, one of several Duskwalker kept on her desk, and ran her thumb over it.

“This isn't the first time you've had trouble with him? How long has he been a student?”

“A few rotations, he's pretty new,” Blip explained, rolling the ball around in her hand, “he tested out of a lot of beginner's courses so he's being allowed to sit in on some of the advanced ones.”

“So, he hasn't yet had a class with Knockout?” Duskwalker asked. Firstaid was a gentle, some-what insecure, mech, but Knockout? Well, to say it had surprised everyone how well he took to teaching was an understatement. What was even more surprising was the protective manner he had with some of his students. The ones that showed promise, but were almost as gentle and insecure as Firstaid.

“No, he's just a sit-in until his entrance exams and his evaluation.”

“So, considering he hasn't yet been admitted to the academy, why are you allowing him to treat you this way? You're a student who has tested out of almost all the basic classes, are allowed to intern at a clinic before you've graduated, and are showing great promise in many difficult fields.”

“I'm not,” Blip insisted, swirling her energon around in her cube, “it's just... what if he's right? I mean... I can't lift heavy parts, or even remove armor from a chassis, not without help and in an emergency, if I don't have the tools I need to do that for me, or if the power is out, I'd be useless.”

“He's not right,” Duskwalker admonished gently, “he's just blind. You can take your disadvantages and turn them into your greatest assets,” Blip looked up at her in confusion and Duskwalker smiled. “Think about this for a moment: there are a lot of mechs and femmes in the medical field whose hands are far too large for detail-oriented work and they've had no one to turn to for help. Instead, they need to use tools, tools that negate the sensitivity of their hands.”

“Yeah, so...?”

“We aren't at war anymore, Blip,” Duskwalker continued, “so we can build proper hospitals and hospitals need all types of frames, abilities, and specialties. Your size, your shape, your form, none of that matters because in a proper hospital setting all the doctors and nurses will work as a team. In the end your frame type, your height, won't matter.”

“But what will matter?”

“A lot of things, but mostly a willingness to learn, and the ability to be accepting of everyone. No matter who your patient is you need to be able to look past the exterior. To see that they need your help and it doesn't matter what your personal opinion on who, or what they are, is.”

“But that's easy...” Blip objected, looking down and then back up at Duskwalker, “isn't it?”

“For some it is,” she agreed, nodding her head, “but for others it's a difficult thing to ask of them. Sometimes it's the hardest thing you could require of them. Especially after the Great War it's going to be difficult for everyone to get used to the way things will, hopefully, be from now on,” Duskwalker waited, taking another longer drink from her cube while Blip mulled over what she said.

“You... you sound like you know what it's like,” Blip said at last. Duskwalker smiled and tilted her head to the side.

“I do, and it isn't easy,” she leaned back into her chair, taking another sip, “I wasn't exactly what the others expected when I joined the academy and I was already highly trained by Neutral medics and specialists, one of them was actually a spark expert. So, when I continued to test out of the basic classes, and then even most of the advanced classes, some of my classmates felt cheated and that they needed to even the field.”

“Oh,” Blimp muttered. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” Duskwalker told her. “Sure, it hurt, still does, but I knew I was more than capable to earn my Seal. It's all I've ever wanted and I was so close to getting it that I guess their words didn't really sting deep enough.”

“That's what I want, too,” Blip confided in her.

“Downshock will learn. Ratchet and the others won't allow an abusive mech, femme, or otherwise, to earn their Seal. That's why there's an evaluation in place. It would be too easy for a medic to take advantage of a patient... I guess what I'm trying to say is: Take your weakness and turn it into a strength. You're small, so what? That just means that the most detailed of work, the stuff that really matters more than cosmetic or armor plating, will fall to you because you are highly capable.”

“I guess I can try,” Blip tried to smile, and then managed it, “I've always been interested in micro surgery. Everyone else finds it frustrating and hard, but I love it. If Ratchet and Redalert approve, would you be willing to sign off as a third medic for my field of study? If I choose to go into it of course.”

“Of course, I would. It would be an honor,” Duskwalker grinned, but her grin turned into a mild frown when she noticed a flashing light on her console. She had a call coming in on a secure line.

“Blip, I've loaded up a new exercise for you. I'm afraid I need to take this call, are you alright with me locking that room down? Just in case it's serious.”

“I understand, thanks Dusk. Mind if I take my energon with me?”

“Not at all,” Duskwalker offered a servo to the minicon to help her down, though her servo barely served as a single step. Duskwalker wasn't all that large herself, but she was able to help Blip down onto the floor with her energon. She waited until the minicon was in the third treatment room and then locked it and the front door down. Duskwalker pulled the call up on her vid screen.

“This is Duskwalker. Please state your emergency,” she said, her tone quite official now, but the mech who popped up on the screen surprised her: it was Bumblebee.

“Duskwalker, this is Bumblebee,” he said, “Ultra Magnus, myself, and a couple others are coming to speak with you and with Skystrike. I'm going to need you to place your whole clinic on lock-down... I'm afraid it's quite the sensitive subject. Do you have any other patients today?”

“No. I've discharged the mech I had in my primary treatment room, and Roadblock was in the third room. Skystrike has the second at the moment... I do have my intern here, but I have her in the third room and have already placed it on lockdown to take your call.”

“That's fine. We'll be there shortly. Bumblebee out.”

–

Duskwalker had known to expect Bumblebee and Ultra Magnus, perhaps another member of team Prime, but she had not expected the Lord of the Predacons himself. Ratchet had come along as well, but not even Ultra Magnus could compare to the sheer presence Predaking possessed as he entered her clinic. Her clinic was quite large to accommodate all frame types, but even so Predaking was forced to duck, slightly, as he came through the open door.

“Sorry for the sudden intrusion,” Bumblebee apologized to Duskwalker. The femme studied him having only seen him at a distance. She knew of Bumblebee by reputation, but this was her first time really meeting him, “but it is urgent. We need to speak to Skystrike immediately.”

“You can speak with him, but he isn't cleared to leave just yet. I want to be certain his frame takes to his repairs. Sometimes a Predacon's body will reject new components. I want him to remain on his beth, but don't over stress him. As she spoke the whole group followed her to the treatment room Skystrike was in. Ultra Magnus stepped in front of her, in a sense fending her off from entering the room.

“It would be best, I think, if we spoke privately with him, Duskwalker,” he requested. Duskwalker did not appreciate the idea of these mechs speaking in secret in her clinic, but with a quick look at Ratchet's face plate, which was grimmer than usual, she decided she could swallow her pride this time. Next time she may not be so accommodating. Especially if this got to be a habit.

“If there is a danger to his safety while he is here, I expect to be informed, but yes. Blip has a few more exercises she can work on, and she's already aware that the room she's in is on lock down. For now, I'll disable my cameras and audio recorders in Skystrike's room. If you need me, or when you're finished, I will be in my laboratory,” Duskwalker agreed and waited for Ultra Magnus, Predaking, Bumblebee, and Ratchet to file into Skystrike's room before making her way past her desk and through the door on the opposite side leading into her private lab. If they had secrets to speak about, and didn't want her to hear, she was quite happy working on one of her other projects in the meantime. Besides, she was just a medic and they had Ratchet to assist them. She'd be back to her normal days of work in no-time.

Duskwalker's lab was really half lab half engineering. On one side she had a work-in-progress spark monitor that was being altered to show separate graphs for each individual layer of the spark. In this way a medic would be capable of collecting a better reading on the spark's condition; such tools already existed, of course, but they were hard to come by.

She was not building one, but two enhanced scanners. She intended to donate one to the academy once she had them both up and functioning. Ratchet and the other professors didn't know about it and Duskwalker wanted to keep it a surprise, to that end she placed a dust cover over the unfinished machines. It wouldn't take much more work to finish and she'd be able to present them to the academy.

Computer equipment took up one whole wall, the monitor split into three screens and on the wall furthest from the door was her work bench. It, like the rest of her lab, was carefully organized. She hated looking for a tool she needed in the middle of a project. Of course, some tools would still wander out of place and she would find them later in one of her treatment rooms. Really, she had only herself to blame when that happened.

She had, of course, a host of medical equipment closest to the door where she could most easily access it. What she didn't have here she had in storage, and if she didn't have it here and now it was on her to-build list. Duskwalker could buy or order it of course, but she enjoyed using her hands and this way everything was custom built to her size and frame type. Granted once it was done, she took it to Perceptor, head of the Science and Engineering guild, for testing before she used it at her clinic.

The center piece of her lab, and her on-going project, was the holomatter reproduction of a Cybertronian spark, and variants thereof. Her intent was to log every type of spark, spark-ailment, and disease on this device. The replicated spark would then be able to create any kind of scenario in order to educate new and upcoming medics and specialists. Of course, most of the scenarios Duskwalker had logged were terminal; no known cures or treatments existed. Because of the war a great deal of research was lost, and outside of a few specialists, like the one who had taught Duskwalker, no one had continued that research.

Duskwalker walked up to the display, her optics traversing over the varying layers of spark and energy strands, and finally powered it down. She wasn't trying to hide it, Ratchet had seen it before, but the bright fluctuations were making her tired optics ache. Five rotations now with only a minimal amount of recharge, how did Ratchet do it? Duskwalker supposed they had more experience and Renegade had always insisted that she keep a tight recharge schedule. That and the medics in the heat of the war had no choice but to spend ever lengthening periods of time online without recharge or proper fueling and they had grown used to it.

Often, she'd wished to ask Knockout, Ratchet, or any of the others, but she was not brave enough. For her it seemed like a personal question and perhaps Ratchet nor Knockout would wish to speak about it. It could dredge up old memories, dark memories, memories that they didn't wish to relieve. So, she kept her normally insatiable curiosity to herself.

“How's everything going, Blip?” Duskwalker queried over the clinic's private comm. line. She sat down in front of her computer and pulled up the camera to the third treatment room to check in on her intern. She watched Blip turn around and wave at the camera.

“It's going great. I only have two more exercises to go... uh, how long will we be on lock-down? I have a class later with Ratchet and he does not appreciate tardiness.” Duskwalker grinned at that. When she had been in the academy her classes has been tiny, maybe two or three individuals depending on the classes and when Duskwalker tested out of certain classes she often was one on one with her professors. It was both a privilege and a little intimidating. She could well remember, though, the tirade Ratchet had given to one mech in particular for being late.

“I'm pretty sure you'll be fine. I can write you a pass and that way he can be angry with me instead of you,” Duskwalker reassured her. She could have told Blip that Ratchet was here, and that his class would most likely be cancelled, but she wasn't sure on how hush-hush their visit was. Erring on the side of caution seemed best; Duskwalker still felt uneasy about the look on Ratchet's face plate. Certainly he was a crotchety old mech, but the look and weight he carried was more than his usual gruff attitude. Besides, once you got through the crusty exterior you found a mech who cared deeply about everyone around him. That old mech cared a great deal for a lot of people, but he'd suffered more than his fair share of loss too.

Duskwalker didn't think that holding people at arm’s length made it any easier when the time came to say goodbye. Even when Ratchet's patients were fooled by his grouchyness he hurt for them, and was deeply wounded if he lost them. Always wondering what he could have done to save them...

“Thanks Dusk,” Blip interrupted her depressing thoughts, “but I don't think he'd yell at you or anything. Just grumble and mutter about it not happening again.” Blip gave her one more wave before returning to the exercise Duskwalker had situated for her, and the brown femme decided that she may as well pull up one of her own projects.

On the middle screen, passing the camera footage off to the one on the right, Duskwalker called up a file on an artificial spark containment unit; one designed to house a spark during repair on the spark chamber. It was a difficult subject to study and nowhere near the testing facilities with even an artificially created, and fake, spark. There were too many variables that had to be taken into account. Such as the possibility of a spark splitting, fracturing, or otherwise being broken down into two or more fragments. Then there was the very real risk of the spark being snuffed out if it was removed incorrectly from the chamber, and the chamber itself was a mystery all on its own.

Sparks and their chambers were often impossible to separate due to a kind of bond they formed together. A Cybertronian's body was made up of living metal, and this was true of all its mechanical organs as well. Some pieces could be replaced, but others such as the t-cog, were more a matter of biology instead of engineering. The spark chamber was another of these biological components of a Cybertronian, only transplant was not, or ever could be, an option. Which made open-spark surgery and the repairing of a chamber exceedingly dangerous and difficult. One wrong move could damage or destroy the spark, especially with certain tools that were necessary for metal work.

There in lay the problem Duskwalker sought to solve; well one among many. How to house the spark, safely, without fear of fragmentation, fracture, or deactivation? The answer lay in an artificial spark chamber that could mimic the energy readings of a Cybertronian's original spark chamber. If the energy readings matched, and were powerful enough, the spark may migrate on its own to the artificial chamber. However, the differences in energy for each chamber were so minuscule there was, as of yet, no way to read them artificially.

The difficulty lies in the properties of Cybertronian alloy, Duskwalker thought, because our bodies are made of living metal, they each have a slightly different make-up. Our CNA is not so different from an organic's DNA, but we do not have 'blood types', making all of our parts capable of being planted into another. Instead, we must worry about energy fields, both personal and general, and their effects on our frames and new parts. Specifically, I have noticed this in Predacons, their energy fluctuations are more severe than an average Cybertronians, meaning their chambers are going to be fundamentally different. Which means that an artificial chamber would need to be capable of creating multiple energies, but how would we measure that? Even when factoring in the 'radical' fluctuations of a Predacon the difference in readings is minuscule at best.

The answer, or so it seemed to Duskwalker, was to look past the metal and instead focus on the energy field surrounding the spark. The spark did not rest against bare metal after all. Bouncing around whenever the frame took a hit. Instead Duskwalker theorized that an energy field cushioned the spark, much like suspension. That field helped to keep the spark in place and, in a sense, 'glued' it to the chamber. The difficulty was the spark was layers upon layers of specific energies and those layers were difficult to see to a medic's naked optic. Some, admittedly, did not think this field existed, but Duskwalker knew it was there. She just had to find a safe way to prove it.

Just as Duskwalker pulled up the graphic representation of a spark, its layers highlighted in different colors, she heard steps outside of her lab and the hiss of the pneumatic door opening. She didn't even need to turn to learn who it was who'd entered: the smell of disinfectants, cleaning solutions, medi-grade, and rubber identified Ratchet for him.

“Do you need Skystrike's med files, Ratchet? You know I don't mind you pulling them up if you need to double check my work,” she offered, turning her chair around to look at the old mech; he didn't look pleased at all. “Ratchet, is something wrong?”

“Hmph,” he grunted. Duskwalker stood up out of concern, her optics flicking to the room behind him. “There's quite a bit wrong right now, so I can't exactly pinpoint a singular 'thing' that is 'wrong'.”

“Is there something going on that I can assist you with, then?” she questioned, not taking Ratchet's gruff behavior and words to spark, or at least trying not to.

“... Ultra Magnus, Bumblebee, and Predaking want to speak with you. I do not approve dragging someone else in on the situation, but I have been overruled,” Ratchet grouched. Duskwalker blinked at his harsher-than-average growling. A portion of her felt hurt, feeling like some kind of useless hanger-on and maybe she would have, but she knew he was upset at the idea of placing someone else at risk. That doesn't mean she didn't flinch at least internally.

“Not a problem,” she reassured the medic, “I had a feeling Ultra Magnus, at least, would want to talk with me about Roadblock.” Ratchet's optic twitched at the mech's name; so, he knew about that, too, huh? “He's that happy about the whole thing?”

“Roadblock was placed for your protection,” came the dry, no-nonsense, voice of Ultra Magnus. “Skystrike was attacked and one of his fellow Predacons kidnapped. When we were made aware of the situation certain precautions were put in place to ensure your safety, Duskwalker.” Now the others filed into her lab, including Skystrike and what had once been a large room felt crowded. The others weren't close enough for Duskwalker to feel their personal fields, but her frame already felt over-sensitive to them.

“Enough with these games,” Predaking reprimanded with a cut of his arm through the air, and pounding steps as he walked further into the room, “Redtalon is missing, along with six others of my people. I have been patient with this investigation, but I expect answers.”

“We are doing all we can,” Bumblebee tried to reassure Predaking, following after him with his servos up in a placating gesture, “Several reports have been filed among our own people about kidnappings and attacks. Ultra Magnus believes these occurrences are connected. Only continued cooperation will insure the return of our missing.”

Duskwalker's ears flattened on her helm, tail lashing lightly behind her, as the not-quite discussion threatened to dissolve into an argument. An argument that could have damaging ramifications to her lab and sensitive equipment within. It was also an argument that smelled old and she had no intention of allowing them to continue wasting time arguing about it.

“Would someone be so kind as to explain why my patient is off his berth?” she questioned, gesturing towards Skystrike. The mech remained still, having not spoken a word as of yet, but still he should be resting, “also why hasn't the public been informed of these attacks?”

Her interruption had the effect she wanted. All optics turned to look at her and she felt herself almost shriveling up inside. Here was part of Team Prime and Lord Predaking in her medical clinic and she had the struts to try and break up a fight before it happened? No, no matter what this was her clinic and she was the head medic here. She had a right to question them, especially when they had decided to involve her in whatever was going on. It was only Ratchet's tiny change in posture, though, that kept her back straight. He'd noticed what she'd done, but she wasn't sure if he approved or was merely mildly amused by the situation.

“If the public were made aware of recent events,” Ultra Magnus lectured, “it may prompt undue fear and panic.” Duskwalker grimaced a little. Did Team Prime truly believe that? The war had only been over for a few years and only a short time ago there had been a skirmish out in the, formerly known, sea of rust. Surely attacks were to be expected as left overs from the war? The kidnappings, though, those bothered her. Who would be powerful enough to kidnap a Predacon? Let alone six others previous to this one?

“So,” Duskwalker continued while curling her tail closer to her legs, “I'm assuming, then, there's something involved in these attacks/kidnappings that would make the public afraid and react poorly?”

“Yes,” Bumblebee agreed reluctantly, his door-wings lowering slightly on his back, “all of the attacks showed evidence that Predacons were involved. Like with Skystrike there were claw and fang marks and blaster burns found on any remaining frames...”

“Remaining frames?”

“We believe,” replied Ultra Magnus, “that some of the mechs put up too fierce of a fight and rather than leave witnesses they were killed. It is easier to kill someone than it is to capture them quietly.”

“So that leads me to ask: Why should it matter that Predacons are involved? Obviously, there are more than simply Predacons attacking. If the evidence points to blaster burns there has to be standard framed Cybertronians involved. Wouldn't it be better if people knew to watch out for an attack? They can't defend themselves if they don't know it's coming.”

“Duskwalker” Bumblebee cautioned, “there haven't been any Predacons on the planet for a long time. It won't matter that there's evidence that bots like me, or Magnus, could be involved. All they're going to hear is that Predacons are involved. They'll panic. People are afraid.”

“And well they should be,” Predaking added, his voice almost a rumbling growl as he turned to look at Bumblebee, “my people are not civilized. We are powerful and bend to no one's will but our own,” he stood tall to look down at them all, his lip curling to add to the effect of his words, “were we truly beast-minded we would scour the planet, ruling it with fang and claw!” Predaking brought his own talon-like hands up, clasping them in front of them as if he held onto something, and pulled them back down towards himself while taking a single step forward. Smoke roiled out of his frame in tiny wisps as though his frame was too hot to contain it all.

Duskwalker's own armor felt like something was crawling underneath it. Predaking's words held a threatening overtone she didn't like, but it seemed he was not finished. He loosened his hands, letting them slowly hang to his sides, and he looked to Bumblebee, Ultra Magnus, and Ratchet.

“But we are not beast-minded,” he spoke again in a softer tone, helm lowering so he could look down at Duskwalker as well, “and still, your people fear us. If we are to survive we must learn to coexist with others of this planet or our race shall again be doomed to extinction,” he sounded almost afraid, forlorn, and burdened by the responsibilities he owned his people as their king. Knockout had been right; there seemed to be an innate nobility to Predaking. One that came with great pain, but even greater pride.

“Which is why,” Ultra Magnus concluded with a nod of his helm, “we must go to lengths in order to both protect Cybertron's citizens, all of its citizens, and discover the truth behind these events. Even if it means we do so in secrecy.”

“Because you're worried people will attack any Predacon that is the least bit threatening,” Duskwalker guessed. She could understand their hesitation, but was it the right decision? “So that begs the question if you're keeping all of this under the table, why tell me?”

“Because these kidnappings, and attacks, are most likely connected and Skystrike was able to get away. Which means you may be at risk. Furthermore he was followed here, to your clinic,” Ultra Magnus explained, remaining as stationary as ever, “It's possible her attackers were with-in camera range, but unwilling to step out into the light.” He was referring to the lights Duskwalker had installed outside. She wasn't an idiot; she knew having a clinic in this area may invite trouble, but trouble rarely wanted to be caught under cameras and bright lights.

“I checked the feed that night once Skystrike was stable,” Duskwalker turned and pulled up the surveillance feed up onto all three monitors, spreading it out so they could see, “there is no one there. At least not where it is bright enough to see. Of course, you may be able to refine the footage more,” she ejected a data chip and offered it out to Bumblebee, who accepted it, “as for being at risk? I don't think I'm any more at risk than I ever was before. I almost never leave the clinic, except to pick up parts during daylight hours, and even if I leave during night hours, I don't exactly take the streets to get where I'm going.”

“Still, we're covering all our bases,” Bumblebee clarified, “there's still a chance that –” Bumblebee was forced to stop as Duskwalker's spark display flashed into life. Duskwalker jumped backwards while Predaking snarled. In contrast the Autobots seemed more disgusted than surprised. Bumblebee pressed his face plate into his servo, Ultra Magnus shut his optics, shaking his helm, and Ratchet's systems revved with a growl; words barking into the empty air.

“Roadblock! Disengage that rat-fragged cloak for Primus' sake. There's no point in it if you give yourself away. And what the slag do you think you're doing, playing with what could be experimental medical equipment? If you'd broken anything you could have destroyed months of work and research!”

Duskwalker started growling herself when Roadblock materialized out of the air, a smug grin on his faceplate not looking the least bit sorry. Duskwalker decided right then and there to dismantle one of those cloaks and installing some kind of equipment that would immediately deactivate it upon entering her clinic.

“Cool your gaskets, I didn't hurt anything and you all were taking your sweet time getting' around to what my job is going to be... heyya femme. You still hissy about our little dance?” Roadblock sauntered over to them, the grin on his face only getting bigger with every step.

“Enough, Roadblock,” Ultra Magnus chided, stepping forward, “you seemed to have forgotten what your primary directive is.”

“Haven't forgotten,” Roadblock boasted, coming to a stop next to Ratchet, “just don't see the point in – what's the human saying 'Bee? Beating the foliage? – anyway, seems like you should just tell Ms. Claws that I'm going to stick around and watch her tail. That is if she doesn't get her back out of shape over the whole thing,” Roadblock smirked down at her and disgust and unease slowly curled around inside of her systems at his derogatory comments towards her. She had barely a klick to decide if she was more uneasy or disgusted because Skystrike's systems growled, and his clawed servos clenched. It seemed she was not the only one upset over his choice in words.

“Enough, Roadblock,” Bumblebee ordered sharply, stepping forward so he was between Skystrike and Roadblock, “Duskwalker is medic class and she deserves your respect.”

“At the very least,” Ratchet grumbled, tone dry, but his optics traveled to Predaking.

The King of the Predacons was staring at the spark on display, servos clenched at his sides and optics narrowed. He ignored their gazes and walked over to the display. Ratchet followed behind, looking up at the display, and making a sound of interest.

“You've progressed since I last saw your portfolio... Predacon?” Ratchet queried in an almost distant voice. He was going into study-mode.

“Yes,” she agreed, nervousness slowly pushing out her earlier disgust. It was almost like her innards had turned to sludge.

“How did you collect the data? I only had so much from before,” Ratchet stepped around the display, mapping the layers of the spark with his optics.

“I began with the data you gave me,” she explained while glancing between Bumblebee and Ultra Magnus. They didn't need more distractions, but this was easier, better, to concentrate on over Roadblock's bigoted comments, “and formed a rough model. Then a Predacon, Razorbeak, was rushed in for care. He'd been in a fight and his chamber casing was badly damaged. I had to repair a great deal of it, which takes time, and I was required to take readings of his spark to ensure it hadn't been damaged. He was lucky I was so thorough. A portion of his casing had broken off and was lodged inside of his chamber. It took me four full rotations to remove it. I didn't dare simply reach in and pull it out. Instead, I waited until he was stronger and I could risk the procedure. During which time I took several images of his spark and have since been studying those.”

“You have been studying Predacon sparks?” Predaking demanded, his voice guarded. He turned away from the display, stalking up on her like, well, a predator, “for what reason?” Duskwalker shivered a little in her armor. She didn't know what to say in reply. She was a medic and her preferred area of study was the Cybertronian spark. She'd even spent the majority of the war, when she wasn't tending wounded on the battle field, studying under a spark-specialist.

“I –, if something is wrong with my patient and I do not understand enough of their physiology I could cause them more harm, which I refuse to do,” Duskwalker took a step back as Predaking stopped in front of her, he was so slagging big, and the heat radiating off his frame practically scalded her, “I did not do anything more than observe his spark and take required scans, all of this Razorbeak was aware of. I explained all of this to him in-between each session.”

“And to what end do you intend this research come to?” he demanded, leering closer to her with optics narrowed. She wasn't certain what he wanted her to say, but Ratchet stepped in.

“Duskwalker is not Shockwave, Predaking,” Ratchet soothed, “she is a medic. She's sworn an oath to protect and to heal. She would never do harm to your people.” Predaking growled and Duskwalker sighed; Roadblock really needed to be taught a lesson about respecting boundaries.

“It's alright, Ratchet, he has a right to question my motives,” she said. “And I would be more than willing to give you a copy of all my research, Lord Predaking, once we finish our previous discussion?” She turned to look at the other Autobots and gestured to Roadblock.

“I do not need a mech, with a condescending attitude, to be sneaking around my clinic. I have already stated I do not wish for my patients, clients, to feel remotely uncomfortable. To have a person like him skulking around would only serve to place my clients on the defensive; cloak or no cloak. Most of my patients are already on the defensive and difficult to deal with,” Duskwalker did her best to ignore Roadblock as he rolled his optics. Bumblebee sighed and Ultra Magnus stepped towards her, Predaking stepping aside, his frame practically oozing authority.

“What you do and do not want does not pertain to the current situation,” he explained as he stopped in front of her, “your safety is far more important than any business you may lose.”

“Besides,” Bumblebee agreed, “there is a good chance we will be capable of stopping whoever is attacking so you shouldn't be inconvenienced for long.”

“It's not about business loss,” Duskwalker protested. “The majority of my patients are unable to pay for medical care. They have nowhere else to go. Most of those are Decepticons – former Decepticons – who are too wary of Autobots to seek help from anyone else even if they could afford it.” Duskwalker didn't need money, she made plenty from the equipment she retrofitted for other clinics who charged ridiculous amounts for their care. That way she didn't need payment from those who couldn't afford it; like Blackwidow and Blitzwing.

“Duskwalker,” Skystrike spoke up for the first time, his voice soft and the wings on his back shuffling lightly, “I understand your sentiment and am grateful for your kind spark. You care for all equally and try to protect those around yourself. We just wish to protect you as well,” Duskwalker blinked her optics. Skystrike remained standing by her door, the one furthest from the little group, but his words seemed to sum up everything the others had been trying to say. “To that end I will stay here with you. I agree that my repairs are not yet finished and as such my remaining here shall not arouse suspicion.”

Well... what was Duskwalker supposed to say to that? Skystrikes words seemed to surprise the others, except Predaking, and for a moment no one said anything. Naturally, of course, Roadblock had to open his mouth.

“So, I'm going to be guarding the pred and the kitty? You're kidding, right?”

“You can't give the cloaking device to someone quieter?” Duskwalker practically groaned.

“No. I'm afraid not. The device is an experimental one which requires a great deal of energy and Roadblock is a special case,” Bumblebee tried to placate her.

“'Special case'? How so?”

“Roadblock is an Outlier,” Ratchet told her. “Though his capabilities are quite destructive, to himself and his surroundings. His spark emits high energy pulses which, unless contained, would damage anything, or anyone, around him so he is forced to wear special armor designed to absorb and control those pulses. The cloaking device, because it does not merely make him invisible, requires an exorbitant amount of energy.”

“Naturally that means I make for the perfect specimen to test it out on,” Roadblock boasted. “Of course, I was perfect to begin with.”

There was no win for losing, Duskwalker decided so she would just have to make do with the situation. Yes, it would be quiet for a time, but she could use that time to finish the scanners she was building, send them off to Perceptor, and work on a few other projects. She didn't like it, but she could see there would be no persuading them otherwise.

“Alright, alright,” she admitted defeat. “It's painfully apparent to me that all five of you have made up your minds. To make all our lives easier I will close down the clinic under the guise of a contagion. It happens from time to time when I have a patient come in claiming to have Cosmic Rust, the Hate Plague, Cybonic Plague, or what have you.”

“Will that work?” Bumblebee questioned, sounding dubious.

“Standard procedure,” Ratchet acknowledged. “If a patient were to have such a disease it would be catastrophic. Especially as we are currently ill-equipped to deal with an outbreak of any magnatude. It would also limit who could get in and out.”

“It is agreed, then,” Predaking declared, “and I must return to my people. Duskwalker if you would give me a data chip on your research?”

“Certainly,” Duskwalker agreed. She returned to her computer and put together a data chip on all of her research. Predaking accepted it and without a further farewell exited the laboratory. They all watched him leave, and Ratchet's systems growled a little.

“You didn't have to offer him your research, Duskwalker,” he grouched, “but I am grateful you did. Predaking has a reason, a good one, for distrusting Autobots and Decepticons. Neutrals are just mechs and femmes who haven't chosen a symbol to emblazon on their frames to him and his people.”

“It's alright, Ratchet. My research isn't exactly anything ground breaking. We still have a lot of learning to do before we understand Predacon physiology.” The older medic made a noise of acknowledgement.

“I guess that means we're done here,” Bumblebee muttered, rubbing the back of his helm.

“Sounds good to me, boss-bot. I'll see ya 'round, 'course ya won't see me,” and with that Roadblock vanished from sight. Duskwalker's ears twitched in annoyance.

“If I catch him in my private hab-suite...” Duskwalker began to threaten, and then sighed letting the subject drop. She wouldn't even know if he was standing directly in front of her until she slammed into him. She hated feeling so blind, was this how the others felt? Who couldn't smell the difference between high, mid, and low grade energon, or the different scent in blood energon?

“He will not invade your privacy,” assured Ultra Magnus. “Or he will be severely punished, but we must be going as well, Bumblebee. We have a meeting with the Consumers Guild.”

“Right, right,” Bumblebee goraned, nodding to Duskwalker. “Thank you for cooperating with us. I know it's an inconvenience to you.”

“We all do what we have to,” Duskwalker concurred.

“I had best leave as well,” Ratchet broke in, “I have a class to teach... and you know, Duskwalker, you're always welcome to come teach at the academy. There is a great deal you could show the students,” his gaze traveled to the spark display rather pointedly and Duskwalker's optics brightened mildly in embarrassment.

“I'm where I need to be, right now, Ratchet,” Duskwalker told him with a smile, “but thank you. I'd be willing to come in as a guest speaker, but there's nothing your students can learn from me that they can't learn better from you and the others.”

Good-byes done, Duskwalker saw her guests out and also questioned if Blip would be able to travel with Ratchet. He was on his way to teach her class, after all, and she would be safe with him. It didn't exactly make Blip entirely happy, but Duskwalker felt more at ease. Perhaps news of these kidnappings was bothering her more than she thought.

“Thanks a lot,” Blip groaned. “Now I'm going to get a nice, long, personal quiz session. I haven't had the chance to even study!”

“Yep-ep-ep-ep!” Ratchet chided, overhearing them, “when there's a real emergency you won't have time to study and then you'll be nostalgic for my 'quiz sessions'.” Duskwalker barely fought off her smile at Blip's look of sheer helplessness, but a klick later the femme clambered right into Ratchet's alt-mode and they were off; leaving Duskwalker with her two 'protectors'. She made an about-face with a crisp snap, locking Skystrike in place with her optics.

“Don't think I've forgotten how you're supposed to be on berth-rest. Back to the treatment room with you. I'll bring you some mid-grade shortly,” she lectured Skystrike and was mildly surprised when he simply nodded his helm and meekly obeyed her directive.

Retreating back to her desk Duskwalker sank into her chair with a huff. She could only hope they would find the party responsible soon so she could lower the security at her clinic.. speaking of security, Duskwalker pulled up the emblem on her outside display board. It would inform people she was closed due to a possible contagion. At least now she would be able to get some rest, which she dearly needed.

That was, of course, if she could ignore the fact she had an invisible mech sneaking about her clinic, watching her every move, and possibly making rude comments to himself...

Duskwalker decided once this was over she would ask Skystrike how he had known Roadblock was there, but until then she needed rest whether Roadblock was there or not.

Up in her private hab-suite, clean and fueled, Duskwalker settled herself on her berth, wrapping soft fabrics around herself with a purr of contentment. She'd left energon out for Roadblock, no point in letting the mech starve, and Skystrike had been able to refuel himself with no repercussions. It was only a few hours past mid-day, but with nothing better to do, and parts being delivered the next day, Duskwalker felt entitled to a nap, but she wasn't going to be stupid.

“What ho? A foe?” she spoke aloud to the air. “Bring forth your armies, you shall not pass.”

“Understood,” a soft, feminine, voice said from nowhere and everywhere at once. Duskwalker shut her optics and powered down her systems; with the security set she felt more at ease now. She would be alerted if anything happened while she was in recharge. Those same security measures would also prevent any skulking mechs from sneaking up and poking around her hab-suite. Well, not without getting quite a shock anyway.

For a moment Duskwalker let herself get a little satisfaction out of the idea of Roadblock being mildly electrocuted before letting her, admittedly petty, fantasy fade away. She was warm, clean, fully fueled, and had enough challenges to keep her busy for about a week. What more could she ask for?

Chapter 3

“C'mooon,” Roadblock whined from where he sat, practically draped over her work-bench, with his cloak off, “this is so boring. I don't even have a laser pointer to amuse myself with.”

“I am certain Skystrike would be willing to take over for you while you go out for a while,” Duskwalker offered him, gently inserting the leading ends of a wire cluster into their designated port. She was doing her best to remain patient with Roadblock. It was almost like having a whiny little brother; if that little brother were racist, bigoted, and made her armor crawl over her protoform... Maybe it wasn't like having a little brother, but more like a stubborn piece of rust that refused to go away.

“Like I can leave your safety to the Pred. S'far as I'm concerned, I'm protecting you from him, too,” Roadblock said, ever present smug grin on his face plate. Duskwalker looked over at Skystrike, but he hadn't moved from where he was curled up in the far corner of her lab. He seemed to be unperturbed by Roadblock's attitude and if Skystrike could be patient enough not to react then at the very lease Duskwalker could do the same. So rather than speaking she carefully soldered the wires to their connection.

Save for the sound of her work the lab was silent for a sum total of four minutes and twenty-five seconds before Roadblock gave a long, over-exaggerated, sigh. He slouched down on the bench, armor scraping, and engine revving. Duskwalker ignored him. There was nothing she could do to alleviate his boredom.

“All you've done for the last six weeks is work, work, clean, work some more, oh and let's not forget, read some very boring documents from some off-world mech named Aero,” Roadblock goaded her. Duskwalker flicked her ear and grimaced. “That last one would have been more entertaining if the mech had been flirting with you, but man... just the few paragraphs I skimmed nearly put me offline.”

“My apologies,” Duskwalker tried not to sound sarcastic, “I'm afraid I'm a creature of habit. I enjoy life being quiet.”

“That's right. You're a N.A.I.L. You've probably never seen any real combat; fighting never had a chance to get into your energon,” he commented. “Can't say I really appreciate peace just yet. Came out of the Well fighting and I've never stopped... You're welcome, by the way.”

“I'm sorry for that,” Duskwalker told him, sincere. She knew quite a few who had never known any kind of peace and if it made it easier for some of them to think she'd spent her day in leisure while they fought then she was inclined to let them continue on believing that. “Maybe if you give it a little time?”

“Ha! Naw. I like action, s'why I decided to join up with Mag's Enforcer unit. Gives a mech like me plenty to do... 'course the paperwork is a bore, and assignments like these just about short my circuits from boredom, but it lets me help people who need it,” there was none of the cockiness that normally saturated his voice. Instead, the honesty had Duskwalker turning to look back at him in surprise. Roadblock was leaning back, relaxed, but then he sat up straight with a snap, nearly falling off, once he noticed her watching.

“Th' slag you looking at, Whiskers? Ya see a mouse, or maybe a retro-rat, over here or somethin'?” he demanded. Duskwalker signed and set her soldering gun back into its case.

“How about you and I make a deal? Since you're not willing to leave the clinic without me, I'll go out to Maccadam's Old Oil House tonight so you can socialize for a bit and – ” she paused when Roadblock launched onto his pedes with a whoop – “and,” she continued, “when we get back in, say, four hours you let me work in peace for the rest of the evening.”

“You've got yourself a deal, Claws,” Roadblock exclaimed. “But what about the pred?”

“If Skystrike would like to join us, he's welcome to,” Duskwalker informed him, looking over at Skystrike. “How about i– ”

“Don'tcha know high grade and Predacons don't go well together? If he gets overcharged there ain't gonna be no Maccadam's left.”

“I will be remaining here,” Skystrike answered her, lifting his head and ignoring Roadblock. “It would be unwise for us all to leave the clinic at once. Together we may present too tempting a target. The chances are high that my attackers are merely waiting for such an opportunity.” “Doesn't that also mean you'd be putting yourself at risk? You being here alone would also be an excellent opportunity,” Duskwalker pointed out.

“Perhaps, but the Enforcer's task is not to protect me, but to look after your safety. Set your security system and I shall tend to the rest. I am capable of holding an attack at bay until assistance arrives,” the topic was, evidently, dropped because Skystrike returned his head to the top of his talons and shut his optics.

“So, since that's decided, can we go?” Roadblock asked, he was already making his way to the door leading to the main lobby. Duskwalker flicked her tail and heaved herself up onto her paw-like pedes, walked over to her desk to close down one of her running programs, and joined him. Roadblock vanished behind his cloak when she got near, probably to hide the fact he was staying at her clinic. Duskwalker found it mildly amusing that she was leaving the clinic with two tails. One literal and the other figurative.

–

Maccadam's Old Oil House was famous before the war and its reputation had only grown during and after the war. Perhaps because when there was time in-between battles mechs from either faction would lament about it. Neutrals would speak at length about how they, and their friends, would enjoy their off-hours there; unconcerned about the politics swirling around them. Duskwalker went only so often. She had few friends and her systems were far too sensitive for highgrade, though Maccadam's offered flavored energon as well now.

Blurr, the bar's new owner, was in a corner speaking to a red mini-bot and two other Autobots. She could make out the mech's fast-paced speech and smiled. Any regular here needed to become accustomed to Blurr's exceedingly quick vocalizer. Duskwalker was just lucky that her audio sensors were as sensitive as they were. She was able to parse every word as though he was speaking normally. She privately thought he was the perfect successor to the bar. Friendly, open, and nearly the perfect bar keep, few felt uncomfortable coming here. Even Duskwalker had felt welcome her first time.

“Finally,” Roadblock muttered from behind her. “Y'think you could have moved any slower? Four legs, Primus am I glad I have tires. In the amount of time, it took you to make it four buildings down I'd have vanished off into the sunset like one of those human holo-vids.”

“Your four hours starts now,” Duskwalker reminded him quietly. Roadblock took her words quite seriously because he walked past her and towards two other off-duty Enforcers. At some point he must have dropped his cloak. It would look rather odd if he just appeared inside of the bar, she supposed. The Enforcers looked to be in his same age-group and greeted him boisterously. Duskwalker shook her helm with a grin and made her way to her usual stool up at the bar.

“Duskwalker, it'sbeenawhile. Finallygotoutofthetreatmentroomseh? Soyouinforyourusual? OrcanIinterestyouinthenewmixerwehave?” Blurr's voice cut into her thoughts suddenly; as suddenly as he had appeared.

“Just the usual please, Blurr. I'm afraid I can't cure my own sensitivity to highgrade. So, it's just flavored energon for me, thank you.”

“Comin'rightup,” Blurr said and zipped off. It was barely a klick before he delivered her drink, “thisoneisonthehouse. It'snicetoseeyououtandabout. Y'didsomeworkonafriendofmine, eventhoughhedidn'thaveashanaxtohisname. Soconsiderthisathankyou.” Duskwalker shook her head, laughing softly.

“Blurr, I don't think I've paid for a single drink since I first introduced myself and asked if you would advertise my clinic here. Are you friends with every bot on Cybertron?”

“Nope, notyetatleast. Justfigureonegoodturndeservesanother, andit'snotlikeyoupickoutthemostexpensivedrink...” Blurr paused and leaned onto the bar top, quiet, and his speech slowed dramatically, “How has everything been going? You haven't been having any trouble, have you?”

“No,” Duskwalker answered, confused. “Well, no more than normal anyway. Why?”

“Can't really say much,” Blurr confided to her, “just make sure you're taking care and locking up at night.”

“It's alright Blurr,” she reassured him, “between folks like you, Ultra Magnus, and quite a few others looking out for me and my well-being I should be set. I'm a simple femme and do my best not to draw attention. I'm safe.” Duskwalker was trying to ease Blurr's worries, but his optics dimmed and his usual smile faultered.

“Been some rumors going around,” he told her, quieter and slower than before. “And a few of my regulars haven't been in for a few weeks. If they happen by your place for whatever reason–?”

“I can't discuss anything medically,” Duskwalker reminded him. “But I can tell you if I've seen them. No problem.” Blurr was one of those mechs that had a spark of gold, but she wondered how much he knew about what was going on. He was former Elite Guard. There was no way Ultra Magnus wasn't counting on him as some kind of informant for anything big.

“Thankyou, thatmeansalot. Letmeknowifyouneedanythingelse,” Blurr offered, returning to his bright smile and faster-than-light-speed speech.

“Actually,” Dusk said, turning to look at Roadblock. “You see the Enforcer over there? Came in when I did?”

“Yeah, Roadblockisn'tthekindamechIthoughtyou'dassociatewith. Goodenforcer, buthehasaserioushateforbeast-typesandpredacons.... don'tstophimfromdoinghisjob.”

“Mmm, I've noticed, but he helped me with something, so his drinks are on me, and I'll pay for a round for his friends, too,” Roadblock had been cooped up in her clinic for a long time. She owed him that much even if he were annoying.

“Can-do,” Blurr said and was off. Now, on her own again, Duskwalker pulled out her datapad and re-read through a new article on Cybertronian alloy. It seemed there was a slight shortage. Three shipments had gone missing and the Science and Engineering Guild, headed by Perceptor, were attempting to synthesize more. If Duskwalker didn't have a couple projects of her own to work on, and a pair of body-guards hanging around, she would offer to help. As it was, she had too much going on after reopening her clinic two weeks ago much to Ultra Magnus' disapproval.

Blurr delivered the drinks to Roadblock's table, she could hear them talking, and the seats began to fill around her. She didn't mind, it didn't take much for her to tune everyone else out, so Duskwalker ignored the boisterous behavior and pulled up a new medical article. She wasn't afraid anything would happen, like a bar fight. Blurr was pretty strict about fights breaking out and he had hired a pair of, admittedly, intimidating mechs and his waiters and waitresses weren't push-overs either. So Duskwalker felt alright with letting her defenses down a little and enjoy reading through her article and sipping at her raspberry-flavored energon. Raspberry, how strange. She'd need to visit Earth some day.

“Hey, book-nerd. Not that I mind the extra half-hour, but we should prob'ly get going,” Roadblock's voice came from her left, cutting through her thought process, where he leaned against the bar. Duskwalker blinked and checked her chronometer.

“Slag, I'm sorry. Got lost in a new article and I was thinking – ” Roadblock leaned a little closer, skimming her writing, and vented.

“You got caught up in something that boring?” he asked, skeptical. He lent himself back and pushed off from the bar and stood up straight. “How are you not bored to rust yet?”

“Because this is my line of work and I take great care to wax my armor regularly. Can't have a rusty medic after all,” she smiled at his dumbfounded expression. Roadblock grinned a klick later and this time his grin wasn't demeaning in any manner.

“Ha, so you have humor software installed after all,” he exclaimed. “Still, we should get back to th'clinic. That oversized lizard is going to start wondering where we are.”

“You're right,” she agreed. Duskwalker got up and settled the bill with Blur, surprised Roadblock had only had a single mid-grade mixer, and made her way to the exit. Roadblock was nowhere to be seen, but she knew he would follow her all the way back to the clinic. It had been a surprisingly nice afternoon out. Nice, but Duskwalker was still bothered by how concerned Blurr had been... she'd ask Roadblock about it, maybe he had heard something from Ultra Magnus.

“I can't tell you about the investigation, it's classified,” Roadblock told her, leaning against the far wall. “Look, I get the whole 'curious kitty' thing, but aren't you over-doing it?” They had returned to the clinic on a mildly deserted walk-ways which wasn't overly odd for the area, but it hadn't smelled right either.

“Roadblock, I'm not asking for specifics. I'm only asking if Ultra Magnus has made any progress yet or not. You want out of here, I can tell, so I'm just trying to get a feel for what's going on. If you're going to be pulled off guard duty soon then I don't see any need to worry about entertainment for you, but if you're going to be some time then I need to figure out some kind of activity we can do so that you and Skystrike, both, can get out of this building and do something other than spark-sitting.” Duskwalker stretched, arched her back, and laid herself down on the floor. She'd decided to remain in her alt-mode when she'd returned, it was more comfortable for lounging, and laid her head back on her paws. Skystrike had not even reacted when they returned. He seemed to be deep in recharge.

“If I had anything I could tell you I would have, but I don't,” Roadblock insisted. “The most I can do is let ol'Mags know that you want an update. From there it's up to him.”

“That'd be fine,” Duskwalker acquiesced. “It's been six weeks and I can't imagine that there are any substantial groups that would pose... a threat,” wait a klick, was Roadblock avoiding her optics? Duskwalker lifted and tipped her helm to one side, her ears perked on her helm. “There isn't, is there Roadblock?”

“I just told you, I can't tell you anything,” he repeated.

“If there was one, who would be leading them?” Duskwalker asked herself, ignoring the pained look on Roadblock's face plate. “Is that why they're being so quiet? Not just about the Predacon involvement, but the fact that there might be a group large enough that they may pose a risk to this new peace on Cybertron,” Duskwalker looked back at him, humming a little. He looked like he was going to be sick, she was putting him in a bad position. “Roadblock, I understand that you can't confirm or deny anything I'm saying, so don't. That's alright. I got to admit it's rather stupid I didn't think of it before...” she was a little too obsessed with the idea of being inconvenienced with having these two here. Peace wasn't just making the Autobots and Decepticons 'soft'.

“Duskwalker, just stay out of this,” Roadblock said, exasperated. “It's better if you don't get involved any more than you have. The 'cons aren't just a group.”

At his words Duskwalker made sure not to react, laying her head back down onto her paws. She didn't think that Roadblock had even caught his own slip-up, but the casual way he wasn't saying anything about it made her wonder if it was actually a slip-up.

“Alright, but if I can help, I just need to be told what's needed,” she insisted, her tail flicking. “Ratchet, Knockout, and the others are all excellent medics, but even they have only so many servos.” Duskwalker got up onto her paws and transformed into bipedal mode, sitting down at her desk and pulling up the news feed on her right most monitor and her daily report on the middle screen.

“Again, with the reports?” whined Roadblock.

“Remember? We went to Maccadam's and now I get the rest of the evening to work in peace,” she chided him and was rewarded by yet another drawn-out groan. Duskwalker couldn't keep from giggling a little and Roadblock gave an indignant huff.

“What's so amusing, Ms. Claws?” he asked, pushing himself away from the wall. Duskwalker grinned, but stifled her laughter.

“Sorry, you just sound like a young organic creature I knew. He couldn't sit still for long either,” she informed him.

“Not that I have issues with organics, but there's no way I'd be like one of them. They age fast and die just as quickly, most of them anyway. I don't see how I'd be comparable to one.”

“Age, species, and maturity rarely has any real impact,” she said, now a little distracted by a noise. It sounded like scratching or scraping. Her ears moved on her helm to pinpoint the sound. Roadblock was saying something, but she ignored him and stalked out into the lobby and to the front door. She had a feeling she knew exactly what that sound was.

“What are you doing? You can't – ” Roadblock followed her out to the front door, but she interrupted him and keyed open the door which flew open with barely a hiss. The open door revealed a single mech on her doorstep, a trio of others out on the walk-way, and a piece of metal in his servo.

“I'm assuming,” she began, taking in his scrawny frame, wheels, and loud paint job, “that you're not here for a medical emergency.”

“Slag-sucking N.A.I.L.,” the mech growled and Duskwalker got a face full of high-grade fumes. Just what she wanted to deal with tonight: Another overcharged vandal. He took a step back, teetered, and found his equilibrium again. “Fragging 'con lover, and ah bet ya r'charge with th'Preds.”

“You are overcharged, sir. May I offer you a berth to rest on for the night-cycle? No charge of course,” Duskwalker asked, calmly, but she could hear Roadblock's engine growling behind her.

“Not e'en if it was yer berth ah 'charged in, femme,” he slurred. Duskwalker sighed; she really didn't need this.

“Then I am going to humbly request that you, and your friends, leave. This is a medical clinic,” she requested, but she knew where this was going. She knew this mech and exactly how he would react to her apeal.

“Pit-fragged,” he cursed, “y'can' tell me wh' t'do,” he balled his fist and Duskwalker readied to step aside. He'd topple over onto the floor, like the last dozen times he'd come by. Highback was a terrible drunk, but when he got overcharged enough to come here and vandalize her front door it meant he was also ready to pass out.

Sure, enough he stepped forward, friends hooting and laughing behind him, and swung at her. Duskwalker took a step back to avoid his fist, but she was shoved out of the way. Roadblock surged forward, deflected Highback's punch, and drove his fist into the drunk mech's abdominal plating with a crunch. Highback gaped at the open air, almost hanging off of Roadblock's servo, and dropped to his knees, clutching his middle.

“What are you doing?” Duskwalker demanded just as Highback purged all the high grade from his tank. Duskwalker moved forward as his friends arrived to help him; none of them where a quarter as overcharged as Highback was. Duskwalker knew they came along just to goad the drunk mech on.

“He was assaulting you,” Roadblock said, affronted. “By the Prime's femme, you could just say 'thank you'.”

“'Thank you'? For what? Defending me from a mech who's so drunk he couldn't hit the broad side of the ark? While it was grounded no less? Don't you think I'm used to this kind of thing by now? Highback would have missed me and passed out on the floor, like he always does.” The mech's friends picked him up and told her they'd take him to another medical clinic. Probably they just wanted to get away from Roadblock.

“How was I supposed to know that?! I saw him swing and I reacted,” he stayed by the door while Duskwalker fetched cleaning solvent and rags. He didn't even offer to help with the mess and Duskwalker was too angry to ask.

“Well, aren't you supposed to say something before acting?”

“What? Like 'stop in the name of the law'? I didn't exactly have time if you hadn't noticed Ms. Kitty,” Roadblock shot back.

“That's another thing; considering how you've been speaking to me it doesn't take a genius to recognize that you hate beast-types and Predacons, so why step in?”

“You wanted me to let him hit you? Yeah, I got issues with types like you and Skystrike. And I know I'm a total aft, but that's just it: they're my issues and I'm not going to just stand here while some idiot tries to hurt you. What kind of Enforcer do you think I am, Duskwalker?”

Duskwalker stopped wiping up the floor and looked up at Roadblock. His arms were spread wide, servo's open, as though he were waiting for her to answer him. He watched her for a moment more, snorted, and then walked away towards her desk.

“Stupid cat, getting her back all out of shape like that. Y'd think I stepped on her tail or something, or ruined her favorite mouse-toy,” he mumbled and continued to make derogatory comments as he sat on the floor behind her desk, huffing, and complaining to himself about beast-types and Predacons. Once he even mumbled something about her being ungrateful.

Duskwalker was torn and did her best to ignore his muttering. On the one hand he was right. She had assumed he'd be the kind of Enforcer who would just stand by and watch her deal with whatever situation she found herself in. On the other hand, just because he wouldn't stand by and watch, or make things worse, didn't mean he should be forgiven for his attitude. He was still promoting racism towards animal-type Cybertronians by behaving as he did. Still, she could give him a shanax of credit. He recognized, at least, that he had a problem and he did his best not to let it get in his way job-wise.

Duskwalker wasn't going to give him an award for that, though, but she didn't need to shred his audios either. Instead, she would let it go this time. It wasn't likely this kind of problem would go away overnight. She finished cleaning up and disinfected the floor, dumping the cleaning rags into a container, and made her way to the lab door. Roadblock didn't follow her and she took the lift up to her private hab-suite. No point in trying to get any work done this evening now.

How Skystrike had managed to recharge through all of that, Duskwalker was hopelessly amazed.

Up in her hab-suite Duskwalker relaxed in her oil bath, her optics closed, doing her best not to over-analyze everything that had just happened. Instead, she focused on the heat that coiled through her frame. That alone made her want to purr, quite literally, but it was so hard not to feel troubled. How she missed her normal day-to-day life.

I wonder… she started to think and cut off her own thought. It wasn’t her concern, or business, why Roadblock hated those like her. She had no right to poke at a sensitive subject even in thought. Duskwalker certainly wouldn’t do so with the sensory nodes of a patient. No, she would have to curb her curiosity. Roadblock was a capable mech. He recognized his behavior was wrong so only time would help him choose whether or not he wanted to change.

With a sigh Duskwalker climbed out of her bath and rinsed the oil off of her armor, a quick towel-dry later with a microfiber cloth and she felt like a new femme. She would never be as glossy or polished as mechs like Knockout, but she enjoyed and preferred her matte finish. The browns were warm and off-set her gold optics and biolights beautifully. Duskwalker also loved the way shadows played across her frame, holding onto the subtle change in hue from one brown to the other. It was almost like walking in-between worlds. Admittedly it had taken her some time to get used to her frame, to appreciate it, especially once she started interacting with others of her kind. So many of them seemed to be xenophobic, but she’d grown so she felt comfortable in her own armor; at least in areas she was familiar with. It wasn’t complete peace-of-mind, but it was a start.

Duskwalker sat down on her berth and began to apply a polish Renegade had made for her. Renegade was an old, old mech who’d taken her in after she’d come out of the well. He’d practically raised her, and he enjoyed spoiling her with custom made items. This polish wouldn’t make her armor glossy, but it did have a rust preventative. She had been quite serious, in some ways, when she’d told Roadblock that she made sure not to get rusty. It would hardly look professional if she had rust as a medic after all. Once she was done applying it, she’d be ready to lay down on her berth for recha –

The building shook and Duskwalker lost her balance, falling to the floor, before a massive boom assaulted her sensitive audio receptors. With her face screwed up from the pain she got back up and made her way down the lift, into her lab, and out into the lobby of her clinic. Treamors shook the floor, but not so badly that she was in danger of tripping again.

“What’s going on?” she asked Skystrike and Roadblock. Skystrike was in his beast form, head lowered, and focused on the door with his wings pinned against his back. Roadblock was similarly focused, but both of his arms were transformed into guns, primed and ready to fire.

“Don’t know,” Roadblock whispered. “We saw a small flash outside, but before anything else happened your clinic went on emergency lock-down. I gotta say, I’ve never – word is coming in, sec –” Roadblock transformed one arm back to normal and brought two digits up to his audio receptor. Touch wasn’t necessary for using the comm. link, but it was a universally accepted sign that a mech was busy speaking to someone and not to interrupt him.

The building shook again and Duskwalker decided to grab her medical kit. Whatever had happened she was certain medical aid would be needed. Duskwalker only wished she could bring more with her, but if they could get anyone who needed intensive care to her clinic things should be fine. That is if the area was secure. If not she’d need to assist in transporting the injured.

“Understood,” Roadblock replied to whomever was speaking to him over the comm. “We will be on our way, sir. Roadblock out,” the young Enforcer turned to Skystrike who, it seemed, knew what was going on. Duskwalker watched the exchange with suspicion; what were they up to and what weren’t they telling her?

“An evacuation of the immediate area has been ordered,” Roadblock informed her. “Skystrike and I are to escort you to Iacon Command Center.”

“An evacuation? If that’s the case I’m going to be needed –” Duskwalker tried to object, but Roadblock’s engine revved fiercely.

“None of that slag, femme,” he ordered sharply. “There’s been simultaneous attacks, bombs, in every area where mechs have been kidnapped or attacked. That’s twelve separate sectors in the Cybertronian cities. So far, we haven’t heard word from Predaking, but Magnus doubts we were the only ones attacked. Even you have to admit it’s too dangerous to remain.” Roadblock was adjusting his weapon as he spoke. His voice tense, almost sharp, and in stark contrast to his usual tone.

“I’m used to dangerous places. Isn’t there some kind of forward command I can go to instead? There’s bound to be people who were injured in that explosion, and they’re going to need a medic to at least stabilize them before transport,” Duskwalker insisted, trying to remain reasonable. She understood the danger, but she was first trained as a field medic. She knew all about going out under fire to drag injured to a safe location.

“You think this is the same thing as waiting on the side-lines until a battle ends so you can play doctor?” Roadblock demanded. “This isn’t a game, Kitty, and Magnus wants your aft at Iacon and that’s exactly where it’s going even if I have to tie you down to the roof of my alt-mode and drive you there myself.”

A low growl started to curl up through Duskwalker’s systems and her armor rattled. Duskwalker had brushed off his insults about her alt-mode, and her neutral status, but she had always taken her profession seriously. Being responsible for another’s life and well-being had never been a game. That he would insinuate she treated it as such? Duskwalker couldn’t decide if she felt more hurt or insulted by his words.

“You go ahead and throw your little hissy-fit, but you’re coming. End of discussion,” Roadblock stepped past Skystrike, who was making no comment, and reached for her arm.

“No,” Duskwalker said, stepping back and away from his reaching hand, “my job, who I am, is being a medic. It’s not a game. I don’t play with people’s lives. I do all I can to save them and right now there may be people who need me, need my help.”

“Pit-spawned...” Roadblock shouted, throwing his arms up in exasperation, “there is no one for you to help, femme. The explosions weren’t meant to hurt anyone.”

“What are you talking about?” Duskwalker asked, concern outweighing her anger, “if it wasn’t an accident or terrorist attack, what was it for?” Roadblock’s engine growled and he ground his denta, but finally he started talking.

“The missing mechs and Predacons, plus a number more than that, are ambushing everyone who is going near the affected areas,” Skystrike explained. “Redalert, the medic, and several other first responders have been captured. Civilians, Enforcers, anyone who goes too close is hit by a pulse. It doesn’t knock them offline, but rather they are rendered immobile.”

“All this information in the same amount of time it took me to come down here?” Duskwalker asked, skeptical.

“Enough!” Roadblock barked, grabbing her arm and yanking her close, “we’re already in range of the pulse. Frankly we shouldn’t be fragging moving, but as long as we are we need to get out of here,” he pulled on her arm, but outside of a small growl Duskwalker didn’t fight. She did stumble, and was nearly dragged across the floor, before Roadblock stopped at the door. Skystrike followed behind them, transforming into his bipedal mode so he wasn’t as large of a target.

“Air traffic has been shut down. Anything in the air isn’t ours, so we need to remain on foot,” Roadblock informed her. He opened the door manually, only a crack, so he could scope out the walk-way. “We need to make it to the next sector. At that point, Skystrike, I want you to fly Duskwalker to Iacon command. I will follow behind you, cloaked.”

Skystrike nodded in agreement, but Duskwalker grumbled as Roadblock pulled her closer, and slid out the door with her in tow. He kept one of his arms transformed into his weapon, but otherwise held onto her with his left hand. Skystrike moved after them as quietly as he could, but even as a smaller Predacon he was heavy and made a great deal of noise. Roadblock said nothing in regards to the noise. Instead, he yanked Duskwalker closer, practically lifting her up and off of her pedes, moving at a clipped pace down the far side of the walk-way along the side of the buildings.

“Roadblock, I can walk on my own,” Duskwalker hissed to him, keeping her voice low. The walk-way was too quiet and even a whisper felt too loud; their steps practically thundered in her audios.

“Shut it,” Roadblock snapped. “I’m not stupid enough to let you go sneak off.” They stopped at a corner; Roadblock pulled her back against his side just as three mechs walked by dragging two others behind them. Duskwalker tried to lean forward to catch a scent, but Roadblock jerked her back. Duskwalker barely held back a yelp, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Roadblock let go of her arm only to wrap his servo over her mouth.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, “don’t move, don’t try to talk,” he kept his body pressed back against the wall of the building, gun up, and held perfectly still. “There are more coming.”

Skystrike stood as Roadblock did, with his back to the wall as another group of mechs walked by. Duskwalker reached her hands up to hold onto Roadblock’s hand and arm, trying to relieve some of the weight off of her neck. Roadblock hadn’t set her down fully onto her pedes and by wrapping his hand over her mouth he was holding her up just about by her head. It was times like these that Duskwalker hated being as small as she was and it certainly made her appreciate Blip’s situation more. At least Duskwalker didn’t fit in the palm of another’s hand.

From that point on they were forced to stop and hide every few steps. Duskwalker’s arm was beginning to ache and she was getting tired of being hauled off her feet into an alley or building only to have Roadblock slap his servo over her mouth. Even worse was sitting by when one group passed dragging a mech who wasn’t immobilized, but struggling weakly and leaving a large trail of energon behind him. Duskwalker couldn’t keep from growling a little as Roadblock went so far as to wrap his gun-arm around her abdomen, pinning her arms, along with keeping his hand over her mouth as though he expected her to leap out and attack with fang and claw. His instincts weren’t incorrect, Duskwalker desperately wanted to go out there and stop them, but she wasn’t stupid. That energon trail meant the mech had a primary line that had been either broken or severed. There was nothing she could do for him. He would bleed out before the end of this block of buildings.

“Autobots,” Roadblock mumbled as they moved their way down another street, “those were Autobots dragging that mech.” Roadblock, distracted as he was, didn’t reach fast enough for her arm when he moved to their next hiding spot, but he didn’t have to. Duskwalker followed behind them and ducked down. She understood that they couldn’t remain as much as she wished to help that mech who, by this point, was one with the All Spark once more. There was just nothing she could do to help the situation, so the wisest thing to do was retreat to a safer location.

“We need to get to Iacon,” Roadblock muttered. “If it’s the same at the other locations, but why would Autobots work with the Decepticons?” Roadblock reached for her arm, but this time Duskwalker transformed into her alt-mode before he could grab on.

“I’m quieter, faster, and harder to see this way,” Duskwalker whispered at his look, “smaller too. I’m not going to run off on you, Roadblock, I’ve seen enough to know you’re right. You lead and I will follow. I’m not so stupid that I don’t understand a medic’s place is at the center. I’m not battle-grade and would only be a liability if I took point or rear.”

“Hmph,” Roadblock grunted, but a slight twitch of his lips gave away a slight smile of approval. “You keep your aft ‘tween me n’ Skystrike. If all this devolves into another war, or a continuation of the old one, we’re gonna need all the medics we got.”

Duskwalker leaned down and picked up her medical kit in her mouth. The handle fit perfectly and her fangs slid into the grooves she had designed for them in the handle. She followed Roadblock as he slid back onto the walk-way, quieter now that he wasn’t dragging her, though neither mech could move as softly as Duskwalker could. Roadblock began to hand-signal to them as they met up with more patrols.

Low to the ground and stalking between the two mechs it took Duskwalker sometime before she realized they were making very little forward progress. Instead, they were forced to circle slowly through the sector; ducking into alleys, behind any kind of cover, and into empty buildings. Her ears pricked, and she heard the sound of voices here and there, but then she noticed a flash at the corner of her optic and hissed, ducking into an empty store front and laying down behind the counter. Roadblock and Skystrike followed behind her, startled by her sudden movement.

“What did I –” Roadblock started in on her, but Duskwalker hissed again and covered her mouth with a paw. Roadblock’s optics sharpened and Skystrike joined her on the floor. Barely a spark-pulse later, at the sound of pede steps, Roadblock joined them behind the counter. Duskwalker barely held in a grunt as the mech practically landed on top of her. There was very little room behind the counter and Duskwalker was squashed between the two mechs. No one dared to move. The steps were getting closer and there was more than one group. Duskwalker pricked her ears forward as the two oncoming groups converged on the section of walk-way they had just vacaded.

“Sector cleared?” one of the mechs asked. His voice sounded hollow, as though it were automated.

“Sector cleared. No further sightings. Orders to pull out,” a second, equally empty voice, spoke. It made Duskwalker’s energon run cold at how mechanical and truly robot-like the voices were. She looked between Skystrike and Roadblock. Their optics reflected varying amounts of her own fear.

“Orders received and confirmed,” the first voice said. There was still no hint of personal inflection or even personality. Duskwalker squinted her optics and focused ahead of her. It wasn’t just the voices that seemed wrong.

“Prisoner count one-one-two. Single casualty. Report filed,” the strange talk continued. “Return to extraction point.”

“Order received.”

Duskwalker waited until she was certain it was safe, tracking the combined group as it moved the way she and the others had come. By unspoken agreement she and the mechs remained on the floor, keeping silent. There was every possibility another group would come through and overhear any conversation they might have.

“One hundred and two,” Skystrike whispered after nearly forty-five minutes. “I had not realized this sector was so heavily populated.”

“There’s a lot of transient movement through here,” Roadblock explained just as quietly, his optics focused on Duskwalker and Skystrike. “No matter how many times Ultra Magnus has tried he can’t get a proper census. Too many people ‘round here who don’t want to be found.”

“That’s why I built my clinic here,” Duskwalker collaborated. “Lots of people who need help, have no place to go, and aren’t ready to move past the outcome of the war. A neutral clinic provides them a safe middle-ground.” Roadblock nodded his helm, bringing his digit up to his comm.

“Iacon command, come in. This is Roadblock. Enforcer number beta-one-seven-vector-zero-zero-three. In sector gamma-two-nine. Two civilians; medical class Duskwalker and Predacon Emissary Skystrike. Come in Iacon Command.” Duskwalker accepted the uplink to the comm. channel when Roadblock offered, waiting for a reply.

“Copy that Roadblock, this is Iacon Command,” the reply came. “The other sectors are emptying out as we speak. Pick-up will be there on the ground once the skies clear… Ultra Magnus is requesting a report. I’ll patch him through.”

“Understood, Driveshaft. We’re standing by,” Roadblock confirmed.

“Is this a wise idea? Using the communications line?” Duskwalker questioned while her ears rotated. She was on the alert for any noise that would indicate someone was coming.

“Closed circuit,” Roadblock told her, moving so he was laying on his side, helm propped on his servo. “You wouldn’t have known this line existed if I hadn’t given you the uplink. Skystrike already –” a non-audible click crackled over the line and Roadblock went silent.

“This is Ultra Magnus.”

“We copy you Ultra Magnus.”

“Roadblock, your top priority will be to ensure the safety of Duskwalker and Skystrike. A rescue unit will be in your area shortly. Did you see any others whom avoided capture?”

“No, sir, but we’ve been keeping our heads down. Nearly ran into two enemy groups, but Duskwalker noticed them before we were caught,” a pause, then Roadblock said hesitantly, “sir, there were Autobots in their numbers. I recognized one of ‘em. Gearbox’s not a great fighter, sir, but he’d never drag around a dying mech; would never side with any remaining ‘con forces.”

“I know. We have reports of a mixed group of Autobots, Decepticons, Neutrals, and Predacons. Several of which were reported M.I.A. during the war and many of the Predacons are of unknown type.”

“Did anyone mention the way they spoke?” Duskwalker asked. “They sounded like automated responses, programmed. There was no inflection or personality and there were six mechs in each group –” Roadblock looked at her sharply, – “twelve in total and not a one offered an opinion or even fidgeted like most soldiers would in a battle zone.”

“Rumors only. This is the first confirmation we’ve had,” Ultra Magnus acknowledged. “I want all three of you to meet me at Iacon Command once you’ve been retrieved.”

“What of my Lord and our people?” Skystrike asked. Duskwalker felt guilt stir in her spark for not asking herself.

“I’m sorry, Skystrike. Communications have not been reestablished with the Predacon lands. Intelligence says they were hit harder than the Cybertronian sectors. I’ve sent a relief force to assist them. I will inform you if we learn of anything.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you,” Skystrike said, returning to his usual silence. Duskwalker would need to start actively paying attention to him. It was too easy to forget about Skystrike’s presence now that she was used to him being around.

“Remain where you are and keep in contact,” Ultra Magnus ordered. “All three of you are now key witnesses. Roadblock you will be in command. I expect you to keep them safe.”

“Sir yes sir.”

“Very good. Ultra Magnus out,” the comm. gave another click, but it didn’t close down. Duskwalker adjusted her posture, tucking her front paws against her chest, and vented. Now they just had to sit and wait for rescue.

“This isn’t good,” Roadblock said. “First the kidnappings and now these simultaneous attacks. Whoever is behind all of this is escalating and so far, we still don’t have a lead,” he paused and glanced at Duskwalker, “I didn’t mean to mech-handle you like that. We shouldn’t have even been able to move, which means they made a mistake.”

“How did you both know about the pulse?” Duskwalker questioned, curling her tail around her side. “Earlier you made it sound like you knew more than you were willing to divulge to me.”

“We do,” Roadblock said. “The information wasn’t to be made public, but there was an accident, or so we assumed at first. When first responders arrived, there was no one in sight. The security feed revealed the explosion and how it struck those within its radius immobile. From there they were collected by a group of Decepticons and a single unknown Predacon.”

“Do you know what caused it?”

“The pulse was identical to the energy output of the immobilizer; a weapon developed during the war.” Duskwalker decided not to comment on how information like this shouldn’t have been classified, the public was more at risk facing an unknown danger than a known one. “We know all of this, but we can’t fight back.”

“I am afraid that is not the worst of this situation,” Skystrike commented, adjusting himself so Duskwalker had enough space that she wouldn’t feel overly crowded by them.

“Oh? And what is?” Roadblock demanded, practically sneering.

“Our enemies are specifically, and successfully, targeting our people. Kidnapping them and gaining control over them…”

“...and we don’t know how or even why.”

Chapter 4

Iacon was originally a place of knowledge and learning, but with the return of life to Cybertron it had become the default capital. When Duskwalker learned that it also hosted headquarters for the Enforcers and the Military units she’d felt concerned, but the reasoning behind their placement made sense. The restoration of Cybertron was not without its cost in resources and there was only so much to share among those who’d returned. Therefore, with all the remaining and restored knowledge, Iacon was the only logical conclusion; it also served to place a defensive barrier between any invading force and the wealth of wisdom and technology held within Iacon’s vaults.

Though it had once been filled with relics, and the Autobots had done their best to restore it to its former glory, the majority of Iacon’s halls were empty. This provided a perfect opportunity to begin again, but it also meant the rooms deeper within Iacon made for excellent command, medical, and communication rooms. One of the most impressive communication hubs once belonged to, the former, Orion Pax. Initially there had been a debate to turn it into the primary military command center, but in the end it was unanimously decided that Optimus Prime would have advocated for communication over military strength. The room had become the primary communication station for all of Cybertron.

Duskwalker followed Roadblock through the main entryway, mechs on either side of them, and looked at all those who were gathered. Most looked to be refugees from the city, some were assisting the first response teams. She could see Firstaid and a group of the more advanced students helping a few who had minor injuries. Most of those who had been more severely injured would have been brought two levels down to the primary medical facility, but not everyone had made it. Duskwalker was doing her best to ignore the limp form, covered in a cloth emblazoned with the Autobot emblem, as it was lifted onto a stretcher to be taken to a more secluded room. There would be time to mourn the loss of life at another time and right now Duskwalker felt she should be there, helping Firstaid and his students, but until she had spoken with Ultra Magnus she had no choice but to follow the others.

A little form slammed into Duskwalker’s flank with a garbled noise of excitement. She stumbled, recognizing Blip’s personal energy field, and caught her balance. Duskwalker chuckled, setting her medical kit down so she could use her mouth to talk, and turned to look at the little femme clinging to her side.

“Dusk! You’re okay. I heard one of the bombs hit near your clinic. I was worried you’d been kidnapped with everyone else,” Blip said, squeezing Duskwalker as tightly as she could.

“You know I’m harder to catch than that,” Duskwalker teased gently. “Roadblock and Skystrike were there to help keep me safe, too. Were you at the Academy?”

“Yes,” Blip answered. “I’ve been helping Firstaid, but he told those of us who’ve been going since the start to take a break… we lost someone early on, though.”

“When I can I’ll spot Firstaid so he can take a break, but right now Ultra Magnus wishes to speak with me. So go rest for a bit, can’t have our medics-in-training fall over from too much exertion. I think the only one who can go on for rotations at a time is Ratchet. Maybe it comes with age, hmm?”

“Got it,” Blip agreed with a little chuckle. It was a well known joke around the Academy that Ratchet didn’t recharge, he just ran off of pure grouchyness. Duskwalker didn’t believe that, of course, but if it could wheedle a little laugh out of Blip she thought it worth bringing up.

Blip gave her one more hug around her waist and trotted off to join up with another group of student medics. The little silver minicon turned and waved at Duskwalker who returned her wave with a smile before picking up her medical kit again. Roadblock gave her a bit of a scathing look for having took so long and made his way to the lift that would lead to the primary command center. Hopefully Duskwalker could be done quick and she could get back to where she belonged: helping the injured.

As Duskwalker stepped onto the lift with Skystrike and Roadblock, thankful the others were not joining them due to lack of space, she had to ask herself a question that bothered her:

Where was Ratchet?

“By Primus, Smokescreen, if you don’t remain still I will weld your aft to this chair!”

Oh, there he was.

Duskwalker swallowed her laughter as best she could when she walked into the Command Center. All the members of Team Prime were there, along with one other notable, gathered around a holographic map of Cybertron. Duskwalker glanced at the marks on the map and realized they must be the areas that had been bombed. She found the area her clinic was in with a marker only half a grid away confirming her theory.

“Ow! Ratchet I’m just fine. Lay off, wouldja?” Smokescreen whined. Duskwalker had never met all of Team Prime, but they were prominent faces since Cybertron had been brought back to life. Together with Optimus, the last of the Primes, they had begun the restoration of Cybertron after defeating Megatron and then, or so rumors say, Unicron. It was also rumored that Megatron had not been deactivated, but instead had fled into deep space. Team Prime had never publicly denounced or ratified the rumors.

“I will be the one to decide whether or not you are ‘just fine’. Until then you will keep still until I finish patching your armor,” Ratchet lectured. “Duskwalker, it’s about time you and those two other slaggers got here.”

“Couldn’t exactly expect ‘em to get here any sooner, Doc,” Wheeljack said in their defense, his optics training over Duskwalker and to the mech at her side. “Roadblock, been a long time. You went all official on me.”

“Had to do somethin’” Roadblock said, walking over and fist-bumping Wheeljack. “Heyya Bulkhead, it been any easier being chief architect?”

“Been doin’ great. The vehicon ‘n’ the others are hard workers. They’ve been a bit jumpy lately. Can’t really blame ‘em,” the big green mech fist-bumped Roadblock as well which momentarily confused Duskwalker, but she supposed Roadblock had worked with Team Prime regularly as an Enforcer.

Duskwalker set her medical kit down and transformed, standing next to Skystrike. At least he, too, seemed to feel a little out of place among the Autobots. Duskwalker folded her hands in front of her, tail curled around her legs, and waited to be addressed. In her own clinic she may be confident, comfortable, with giving out orders, but here she was uncertain. This was not her area of expertise. Terrorist attacks. Duskwalker would wait and follow orders.

“Okay, enough with the greetings, we have work to do. Ultra Magnus, do we have news from the Predacon Lands?” Acee cut in, stepping up to the map.

“No,” Ultra Magnus answered. “Our relief force was intercepted and we have had no further communication from them or Lord Predaking.”

“Okay, since no one else is going to say it,” Arcee said, looking at everyone around herself, “is it possible that Megatron has returned? Prowl?”

“No,” said the black and white mech, the word ‘police’ inscribed on his form from his time on Earth. “Intelligence says he hasn’t moved from the asteroid field out at the far reaches of the universe. The closest quadrant mapped Z-96.”

“So far out?” Ratchet questioned.

“I received the report from Jazz,” Prowl said. “This is not Megatron’s work. We must look elsewhere for a cause.”

“Which means we may be facing a stronger Decepticon cold cell than we first thought,” commented Bumblebee. The black and yellow mech turned to look at Roadblock, Skystrike, and herself. “You three were at, or near, ground zero in that sector. Is there anything you can tell us?”

“No more than I told Ultra Magnus,” Roadblock offered, propping his servos on his hips and leaning to one side, “but my personal opinion is that this can’t be Decepticons. Gearbox is a friend of mine and he’d never join up with the ‘cons.”

“Nor would any of my brothers and sisters among the Predacons,” Skystrike added. Duskwalker watched all of their faces; some were thoughtful, others concerned, but Prowl and Ultra Magnus remained completely blank.

“Duskwalker,” Prowl broke the silence. “Ultra Magnus mentioned that you confirmed strange behavior among the attacking forces? Would you describe it for us?”

“Yes, sir,” Duskwalker replied, placing her hands behind her back. “Their responses sounded automated, preprogrammed, and very machine-like; lacking inflection or personality. Only two mechs spoke and the others remained silent, completely still, which struck me as wrong. I’ve yet to meet any group of mechs that don’t at least fidget when standing still.”

“Were you able to see who they were?” Arcee questioned. “Emblems, or any other faction markers?”

“No ma’am,” Duskwalker didn’t see how that would matter, not when they already knew the attacking force was a conglomerate of all the factions, but perhaps Arcee knew more than she did. That was entirely possible. Or maybe there was a newer, fourth, faction that had been formed. “We were hidden behind a store’s front counter, so it’s quite possible –”

“I saw some weird script on one of the new Preds,” Smokescreen butted in. “Couldn’t read it, but the Pred had no other emblem.”

“Do you remember what it looked like?” Prowl asked him.

“Not… really,” Smokescreen admitted, embarrassed. “Just looked like a squiggly line.” Smokescreen lifted a digit and gestured writing some kind of squiggly line in the air. Ratchet’s engines snarled and the young, blue, mech snapped his arm back into place on the armrest of his chair.

“If I have to tell you one more time to keep still,” Ratchet threatened. “Did any of you three notice anything strange before the explosion? Anyone on the street who shouldn’t have been there? Or were behaving oddly?”

“No, but even if there was no one would notice in that sector. A lot of people move through there. Coming and going from the city, or just moving on so they won’t be found,” Duskwalker explained. “I keep a catalog on my patients, but since I started some of them I’ve never seen again for, what could be, various reasons.”

“That leaves us very little to work from,” Ultra Magnus said. “We were able to capture one of the mechs participating in the kidnapping.”

“His capture serves us no purpose,” Prowl objected, “he will not even acknowledge our presence in the room. Unless we are willing to take a more direct approach –”

“ –No,” Bumblebee said. “Optimus didn’t sacrifice himself so we could behave no better than Shockwave or Megatron. We won’t use the Cortical Psychic Patch.”

“Optimus also did not sacrifice himself so we might lose Cybertron to an unknown enemy,” Prowl countered. “The captured mech may have answers we need.”

“Invading someone’s mind like that,” Arcee said softly, looking down at her own servo, “I agree with Bumblebee. We shouldn’t use it.

“I’m with ‘Bee and ‘Cee,” Bulkhead chipped in, at which point the discussion dissolved into a debate.

Roadblock, Prowl, and Wheeljack were for using the Patch. Arcee, Bumblebee, and Bulkhead were against it. Ultra Magnus believed it may be necessary, but would not come down on either side. Smokescreen, by comparison to the others, was completely silent and reserved on the subject; remaining still as Ratchet finished his patches.

“The Cortical Psychic Patch?” Skystrike asked her quietly. “My Lord has never made mention of such a thing.”

“If he’s heard of it, and not mentioned it, then it’s for good reason. The Patch is used to invade another’s mind and search through their memories, thoughts, and even their deepest desires. The one who enters another person’s mind has full control over what is viewed. I didn’t think the Autobots had kept the equipment. It’s supposed to be illegal,” Duskwalker explained at a whisper. “Shockwave, a Decepticon Scientist and Engineer, invented it.”

“Such a device should be destroyed,” Skystrike said decisively, but just as softly. “No one deserves to have their mind and thoughts exposed to another. We do not require any to bare their sparks in loyalty; this is no different.”

“Skystrike is correct,” Ratchet spoke up, silencing the argument, “and Prowl has brought up his own convincing arguments.” He wiped his servos clean on a rag and looked down at Smokescreen.

“You’ve been awfully quiet for a mech who normally enjoys the sound of his own vocalizer, Smokescreen,” Ratchet commented.

“Yeah,” Smokescreen muttered. “Just thinking about when Ol’ Buckethead was poking around my head. It was terrible and I remember thinking I’d never wish that on another mech, but here we are; talking about it.”

“Look, Kid,” Wheeljack stepped forward, leaning on the console that hosted the hologram of Cybertron, “you’re not the only one here who’s been through it. Doc ‘bot, Arcee, and I’ve had the distinct pleasure of having Shockwave dissect our processors. It ain’t nice, no doubt about that, but this may be war and we need all our cards on the table.”

“What do you think, Duskwalker?” Ratchet asked her suddenly, sending a jolt of panic through her system. “You’ve been quiet except to explain the Patch to Skystrike.” Duskwalker flicked her tail once and wished she could met into the floor.

“No offense, Ratchet, but she’s non-aligned,” Arcee objected. “Non-military. She shouldn’t even be here. We’ve heard what she overheard.”

“Who should and should not be here is not relative to the situation at hand,” Ultra Magnus argued. “It is true. Duskwalker is non-aligned, but her medical seal gives her rank equal to Ratchet’s and Knockout’s level. Furthermore she, and the others, managed to avoid capture. So far only a few on the outskirts on the bombings have done so. This makes their input paramount to learning more about our enemy.”

“Besides,” Roadblock added. “If not for her amazing kitty-senses we wouldn’t be here having this conversation with you.”

“Roadblock’s rude comment aside about Duskwalker’s alt-mode,” Bumblebee broke in, “he’s right and whether she or the other two should be involved, or not, doesn’t matter. They’re here, so they get a say.”

“So,” Ratchet turned to look at her again, “your thoughts? Medic Duskwalker?”

Put on the spot as she was nervousness started to build in her spark. This never happened when she was with-in her comfort zone, but here? Duskwalker didn’t feel like she had enough information to work with.

“I am uncertain,” she started, clasping her hands tightly behind her back, “I know very little about the situation at large. How long these events have gone on for, or anything about the mech in question. Is he doing this of his own free will, or is he under someone else’s control? Is he of sound mind, or would his mental faculties suffer if we chose to use the Patch? If he’s not able to endure the Patch we may deactivate, or permanently damage, a mech who may not be capable of making personal decisions. Furthermore: Do we have the right to do this in the first place?”

“Those are excellent questions,” Ultra Magnus complimented her. “He is unharmed, save for some dents, but we are uncertain if his mind is sound. The mech refuses to speak, even to give us a name, and as such we cannot assess his mental state.”

“So he may not survive if we went through with this?” Duskwalker asked.

“It is possible,” Ratchet admitted. “We still have no information on how, or if, these mechs are being controlled. If something was done to his processor our invading it may cause permanent damage.”

“Which means whoever goes in could be harmed as well, or trigger some kind of trap,” Arcee pointed out. “We can’t afford that kind of risk right now.”

“Arcee is correct,” Ultra Magnus agreed. “For now the risk is too great. Until we have more information we refrain from a Cortical Psychic Patch, agreed?”

Agreements circled around the room and Duskwalker gave a soft sigh of relief. At least she had gotten out of a direct answer. She could only hope she would be excused soon to go and help Firstaid. Duskwalker did not much care for being inside the thick of command. She had enough responsibilities of her own as a medic and she was content with those; she did not want any more.

“There is another matter that must be discussed before any further attacks,” Prowl spoke up. “We require a proper chain of command. We cannot always put our decisions to a vote. While we reacted quickly to these bombings another strike will soon follow. I have no doubt in our abilities as individuals and believe we would benefit from further organization and a proper Commander.”

“I’m good with it,” Bulkhead said while Wheeljack rolled his optics.

“Sounds good to me,” Smokescreen chimed in. Ratchet merely nodded his helm, while Skystrike and Roadblock remained quiet.

“Then it is agreed,” Ultra Magnus said and Duskwalker felt her unease grow. She was the only neutral here. Everyone else was aligned; primarily Autobot.

“If we are going to put this to a vote then Knockout should be informed and present,” Ratchet pointed out.

“We cannot leave the prisoner unattended,” Ultra Magnus disagreed and Duskwalker found her ticket out.

“I can take over for Knockout,” she suggested. “This is an important decision and you should have all of your team here.” She bent over and picked up her medical kit, but even without looking at them she could tell they were hesitating. Duskwalker stood up and flicked her ear with a huff, narrowing her optics.

“Thank you Duskwalker,” Ratchet finally said. “That would be appreciated. The mech is restrained, so you need not worry about him getting free. You’ll find them one level below us in the medical ward.”

Duskwalker nodded her head to the older medic; grateful that someone here didn’t care that she wasn’t branded in one way or another.

=

“Duskwalker,” Knockout greeted with a flourish of his servo, bowing slightly to her, “you look ravashing as always.”

“Hello, Knockout,” Duskwalker said with a smile. She never knew how to act around the suave medic. Ratchet had said that Knockout could come off charming to those he liked, but sarcastic and cruel to those whom he disliked. She was grateful she was one of those he liked even if she was never sure how to react and frequently found herself embarrassed by his compliments. “The other members of Team Prime need you up in the Command Center.”

“Yes, Ratchet told me. I’ve informed them of my vote, they hardly need my presence, but I understand that you needed some space from the mighty Team Prime.”

“I’m a medic,” Duskwalker said by way of explination. “Really I should be up helping Firstaid, not getting caught up in all of this.”

“He has everything under control and at least a dozen advanced students to assist him. I believe your young intern is helping to organize everyone and hand out orders. Your influence has done wonders for the little femme.”

“Blip is the one who did all the hard work,” Duskwalker insisted, but she was already distracted. Her optics traveled to the mech behind Knockout. He was of average size, Autobot, simple white and gray paint scheme, and was dented heavily on the one side. He was online, but his optics seemed empty as they gazed up at the ceiling. It caused a chill to crawl down Duskwalker’s backstrut. If she hadn’t known better she’d have thought he was dead.

“Ah, yes. Our patient,” Knockout said as he followed her gaze. “A sad state of events. I heard your sector was one that was bombed. I was relieved to hear you got away safely. We’ve already lost one medic among those who were captured.”

“It was and I’m sorry. Redalert was, is, an excellent medic,” they were taking prisoners so it was too soon to think Redalert was gone. Or so Duskwalker told herself. “Can you tell me anything about his condition?”

“Hmm, not so much,” Knockout hummed. He picked up and offered her the mech’s charts. Duskwalker accepted them and began flipping through the readings.

“A veritable mystery this one,” Knockout continued. “Aside from a minor spark ‘murmur’, if you will, and the damage done when Ultra Magnus brought him in, his systems are perfectly Prime. Of course there is one inconsistency.”

“Oh? I don’t see anything on his charts.”

“Nor will you. I’m afraid there is no physical evidence of it, but our boy here seems to posses super strength.,” Knockout walked over to the vid screen and pulled up a feed from another mech. Duskwalker watched on with both facination and horror as this average sized mech not only loosed himself from Ultra Magnus’ grip, but then threw the mech. Duskwalker flinched at the sound of the ‘crunch’ as Ultra Magnus landed on top of Smokescreen.

“During my time on Earth,” Knockout began when the vid ended, “I learned a great deal about the local populace. The humans encounter, on a near daily basis, a similar phenomenon. When a member of their race imbibes, inhales, or ingests certain chemical compounds, drugs, they were capable of great feats of strength. Local law enforcement would often have difficulty arresting such individuals, if they were capable of doing so at all.”

“What kind of chemical could do that to a Cybertronian though? Aside from Dark Energon or Red Energon, and wouldn’t it leave residual readings in their systems? Or at least their energon?”

“Our data is inconclusive,” Knockout dismissed with a flutter of his servo, “we have ruled out both the Dark and Red variants, but it does provide an explanation as to how they were capable of capturing Predacons. Though by its very nature it places us at a distinct strategic disadvantage.”

“If one average sized mech can throw Ultra Magnus...”

“Precisely,” Knockout proclaimed. “And without the means to reverse engineer the Apex Armor, and the Immobilizer missing...”

“The immobilizer is missing?” Duskwalker gasped. Knockout’s face went from studious to dumbfounded; his mouth slightly agape.

“Uhm, ah… they didn’t tell you?”

“No,” Duskwalker sighed. She could understand, of course, why they would have kept it a secret. They wouldn’t want people to panic. “Is that why you were able to analyze the frequency so quickly?”

“Well, yes. Once we saw the effects of the bomb it was relatively easy to ‘connect the dots’ you might say,” Knockout smiled at the Earth saying. She wondered if he missed it.

Duskwalker offered the chart back to Knockout and walked closer to the mech to take a look. His optics continued to stare up into nothingness, not even reacting to her proximity, and Duskwalker rotated her ears so they were facing the mech. She listened to his system for any inconsistency and pulled a great breath of air in through her vents to sample the air. Nothing sounded, or smelled, wrong. The spark murmur bothered her, but she couldn’t think of a reasonable way to bring up the possibility that something could be wrong with his spark. If only she could have a –

“Well well… isn’t that strange,” Knockout said reading through his datapad. “It seems our boy here was M.I.A. early in the war. His designation is Fanbelt and he was under the command of a mech named Flintlock. Eventually he was declared K.I.A. towards the end of the war when the remains of his team were found… it says here the entire team was wiped out by Decepticons,” Knockout hesitated, the line of his mouth turning down. Duskwalker looked to him and frowned herself. She wasn’t sure what was going on in his mind and she hoped he wasn’t blaming himself. Even if he was, what could she possibly say?

“Knockout?” she questioned after a moment.

“Hmm?” he mumbled without really paying attention. Instead he walked over to the computer and pulled up security feed from all twelve sectors. The feed paused on any mech’s faceplate and placed it off to the side. On a secondary screen Knockout pulled up two databases: a list of mechs and femmes found M.I.A. or reportedly K.I.A. and a list of current residents on Cybertron. Neither list was complete, and by and large it lacked just how many Neutrals were involved when the war landed near a colony, but even so results were starting to churn out.

“How is that possible?” Duskwalker asked. So far there were twenty-seven from the M.I.A./K.I.A. database and fourty-two from the list of current residents. There were still more that were unidentified. Combined with the numbers captured today in each of the twelve sections…

“Whoever is behind this,” Knockout said in a grave voice as he compiled his findings, “they seem to be building an army...” he turned to look at Fanbelt, “an army of near-mindless drones without a will of their own, but how? And for what purpose?”

“Both excellent questions, but they will have to wait,” Ultra Magnus said as he walked through the door. “Commander Bumblebee has requested your presence,” he turned to look at Duskwalker. “Both of you. There has been another attack; by the Decepticons.

Chapter 5

A guard was left with Fanbelt while Knockout, Ultra Magnus, and Duskwalker took the lift back up to the command center. The tension inside the lift made Duskwalker wish it could move faster. Knockout seemed on edge and Ultra Magnus’ silent, looming, presence did nothing to alleviate either medic’s nerves.

Once the lift doors opened the trio made their way over to the command center. Duskwalker could practically feel the electricity in the air and when they entered it was enough to make her pull in her personal field until it rested against her armor. Orders and replies clipped through the room and Duskwalker saw three new points on the map marked in purple rather than red. Two of them marginally overlapped with the previous red markers while the third was alone; close to New Iacon City.

“So, Bumble, I understand you’re our newest Commander,” Knockout said making Duskwalker blink at the nickname. Ultra Magnus glanced down at the red medic and frowned, but otherwise said nothing.

“Yes, Knockout,” Bumblebee turned to look at them, “I need your help. There have been three new bombings, but these have a different M.O. and they caused a lot more damage.”

“Yes, yes. We were informed it was the Decepticons,” Knockout acknowledged. “What is it you need?”

“I’ve sent three groups to go help residents in each area. Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen have gone to the one closest to New Iacon. Kup, Springer, and Hotrod are reporting to sector seven. Bluestreak, Hound, and Mirage are assisting sector sixteen. I’m hoping that they will be able to find some evidence of the bombs. If they do could you identify what type of explosives were used?”

“If there is anything remaining I should be able to cross-reference the database on the Nemesis yes, but Ratchet or any other mech would be just as capable.”

“I know, but I want Ratchet, Firstaid, and Duskwalker to organize the medical bay. Have it ready for any incoming casualties… many of which are former military. Autobot military.”

“And my standing as a former Decepticon has nothing to do with your decision to seclude me on a fact-finding mission,” Knockout said derisively. Duskwalker flicked an ear and stepped closer to Knockout. The red medic glanced at her out of the corner of his optics and gave her a quick, empty, smile.

“No, I mean yes, I mean –” Bumblebee vented sharply. “Anyone who comes in will quite possibly be in battlemode, or have gone offline in battle mode. I’m assigning Duskwalker to tend to any former, or current, Decepticons who come in. She won’t be at risk as a neutral to either faction because she’s a known neutral medic. I don’t want any accidents. The Decepticon cell has taken credit for these new attacks and I refuse to place you in danger. Some idiot who doesn’t care about where you stand now, well...”

“They may see red optics and not bother to think twice.”

“Yes...”

“Yo Cats,” Blaster, a red and yellow Autobot, shouted before glancing at Duskwalker, “and Ladies, we got a communication comin’ in from ‘con HQ. Coded, can’t trace it. What d’you want me to do?”

“Put it through, Blaster,” Bumblebee ordered. “Let’s see what they have to say.”

Bumblebee, Ratchet, Knockout, and all those not manning stations moved in front of the primary screen. Duskwalker did not join them, instead she moved back to a darker corner and crossed her arms over her abdomen. She watched on as the screen flickered to life… Starscream, it seemed, was alive and well.

“Greetings Autobots, Neutrals, and my Decepticon brethren,” Starscream’s frame was sitting, relaxed in, what could only be described as, a throne. His red optics glowed out of the semi-darkness as he leaned forward to speak to the camera. “By now you have no doubt heard of, or even witnessed, my first steps to liberate the Decepticons from Autobot Tyranny. It has troubled my spark deeply these last years to watch as our people strive and struggle to rebuild a Cybertron that will never, truly, be their home. Where they shall never be more than the emblem they once proudly wore.”

Duskwalker watched as several heads turned to look at Knockout, but with a fierce scowl and a hand placed on a glossy shoulder Ratchet made it known: Knockout was not a Decepticon any longer, but a valued ally. It had taken time, but the red medic had earned their trust and no poison from Starscream’s vocalizer would change that. Duskwalker smiled and returned her attention to the screen where Starscream was threading his sharp talons together.

“I am certain some of you may feel as though the departure of our, former, Lord Megatron means that the Decepticon cause has been lost, that it is no more. That we failed to win the war, but I am here to tell you that I, and others, have never ceased in our efforts to ensure a decisive Decepticon victory. What you witnessed today was only a fraction of my wrath and power!” Starscream stood up and lifted one clawed fist into the air. His wings were high and proud, tucking his other servo behind his back as he posed there, his fist shaking slightly as though it shook at the fates themselves. The seeker lowered his arm and slid it behind his back with the other a moment later and strode towards the recording device. He bent marginally at the waist and to the viewer it was as if he were looking down upon them. His voice softened and took on a deadly edge while his optics narrowed.

“Some of you may contest my claim to the throne. That it was Megatron’s last decree that the Decepticons be disbanded. There are still more among you who are traitors to our cause. All shall soon be held accountable and all shall see that I, Lord Starscream, am –” alarms, both on screen and off, began to blare. Starscream stuttered and stood up so they were now only looking at his chest plating. “What’s going on?! Shut off that infernal racket!”

“Blaster, what’s going on?” Bumblebee yelled over the alarms. Duskwalker clamped her servos over her ears, trying to block out some of the noise that made her processor ache.

“A dozen ships just appeared in th’ upper atmosphere,” Blaster reported. “Battle class an’ really nasty.”

The lights in the command center went black, consoles switched onto emergency batteries, and Duskwalker blinked her optics at the sudden lack of sound. She could see the biolights and optics of those around her. Their frames outlined in the dull glow and their heads turning to look around them. Duskwalker felt movement to her side and looked up at the recognizable form of Skystrike’s robotic mode standing guard over her once again.

“Status report, now,” Bumblebee ordered.

“The power has been cut for all of Cybertron,” Roadblock reported as he worked away furiously on his dimming console. “Trying to get the tower’s emergency power up –” the screens, all of them, flickered. An ominous illumination leaked from the darkness hosted within them and a series of lights glinted into existence on their faces. The lights weren’t enough to show them anything definite, but Duskwalker could make out the edges of a face around the twin purple lights; no not lights, optics. Purple optics.

“People of planet Cybertron,” the creature spoke with an even, calm, and reasonable voice. Everyone stood frozen in front of the screens, watching and listening. “The time has come that we reclaim your planet and your people.”

Suddenly the lights flashed and whirred in a circle: purple, blue, and red flashed by in a circle before they stopped on the red lights, the red optics.

“We were tricked!” this time the voice was thick with hostility. “Our rightful place as Masters ripped away from us!” The spinning began again. Flicking between colors until the blue optics were prominent on the screen.

“It can’t be,” she heard Ratchet whisper in horror, but the creature on the screen was speaking again.

“So cruel!” whiny this time, and filled with despair. “Cybertron was to be ours and then you took it away from us.”

“Stolen from us!” the red optics yelled.

“And now we are here to take it back,” the purple optics spoke again. “This time we are stronger, more advanced than ever before. Our desires shall not be denied.” Duskwalker was strongly reminded of Blitzwing and immediately started taking notes. There was only so much they could see, but she could make out different ridges over each set of optics and the cheek structure was subtly different each time. Perhaps this creature had more in common with Blitzwing than she knew; perhaps it too had three faces to correlate with three personalities, or emotions. Her theory was supported by the spinning, switching, optics.

“We tried to be civil,” the face with the red optics said, snarling.

“But you betrayed us,” the face with the blue optics cried, hurting Duskwalker’s ears with the high pitched whine.

“This time we will not retreat,” the face hosting purple optics regained control; it’s tone darker, more threatening than before. “Our time of living among the shadows has come to an end. Already many of your number serve us and soon shall you all. There will be no escape.”

With a flick the screens lit up and a view of every spaceport and shipyard on Cybertron spread across them all. Whispers worked their way through the command center as strange, alien, letters moved in separate sections of each screen. The lines of lettering, numbering, slowly shrank until –

“They’re going to fire!” Bumblebee yelled. “We need to evacuate –”

A searing flash of white energy ate up the screens with a brilliance that had everyone closing and shielding their optics. The walls and floors shook, dust falling from the ceiling, while a muffled roar reached their audios. Slowly the blinding screens dimmed and Duskwalker was not the only one to sag with horror.

“They’re gone,” Ratchet voiced for them all. He slumped down into a chair, his arms limp in his lap. “Destroyed. Every last one.”

Each shipyard and spaceport was a smoking, fiery, ruin. Molten slag ran down the edges of the craters and beyond the roar of the fire came the screams.

Duskwalker felt numb as the vid feed panned over the destruction. Mechs, femmes, Autobots, Decepticons, everyone was running from the immediate area. Unstable buildings fell, trapping or crushing those underneath. Half-melted frames lay in the street near the edge of the crater. Some still functioned enough to try dragging themselves away even as they deactivated. No one spoke, oreven moved, too horrified to do anything but watch and listen.

“You see now that it is hopeless to resist,” the screen darkened again, the face with purple optics returning. “The last of the Primes has gone. Your Gladiator has abandoned you and in your weakened and divided state you cannot hope to overcome us.”

“You destroyed your own planet for your war,” the red-optic face accused. “Scattered yourselves to the stars.”

“Now it lives again, and you’ve returned to us,” the whiny voice proclaimed.

“You will surrender,” the reasonable voice said with certainty.

No one in the room spoke or even moved, but then Bumblebee surged forward. His door-wings were high and rigid, hands clenched at his sides. He was shaking with emotion, but when he spoke his voice, while rough, was even.

“No,” he said.

“No?” mocked the face with purple optics.

“We fought years of war, fought against tyranny and oppression, to finally return to Cybertron and live in peace. Our leader, our friend, sacrificed his life so that others may grow and know a new Cybertron not so they would live their lives as slaves.”

“You would instead sacrifice lives for the illusions of peace and freedom?”

“Lives have been sacrificed,” Bumblebee stood taller, walking closer to the screen and looking up at the alien creature, “and those lives would be wasted if we surrendered and accepted enslavement. I won’t let that happen.”

“You fool!”

“You’re ruining it!”

“You would fight and die even though you know you cannot win?”

“We will win,” Bumblebee said with conviction, “We will not allow you to rule us. We are not your possessions to claim. We will fight.”

Silence, heavy and foreboding, filled the room as they waited for an answer. Bumblebee did not move from where he stood in front of the monitor. Every optic was on his back, on his face, and the grim line his lip plates made. Duskwalker felt a certain amount of awe for his bravery; she was not the only one.

“Then we will allow for general Xerex to move forward with his plans. We had hoped to spare you his wrath,” the face with purple optics said, almost remorsefully, and the screen shut down. Empty now of any ominous figure.

“Roadblock, Magnus, I want the emergency power up for the tower,” Bumblebee ordered. “Blaster, get a communication’s up-link established the moment the power is back. Ratchet I want you and Knockout to get whatever medical supplies together as you can then join the rest of us up on the main floor. We’ll put together groups of volunteers to clear anyone out of the effected sectors.”

A chorus of ‘yes sir’s’ swept through the command center just as the power returned. Blaster was already fast at work and soon they all heard the comm. channel come back on. They were organized into groups and Duskwalker found herself linked together with the other three medics; Ratchet, Knockout, and Firstaid, along with a general channel for everyone to utilize. She, did not hear any distress calls, but she could tell from Bumblebee and Ultra Magnus’ face plates they were already being taken care of.

“Duskwalker,” Bumblebeen stopped her from following after Ratchet down the hall to another lift, “I want you to help Firstaid move the injured down to the medical ward and organize the refugees and have them evacuate down to the catacombs. Before you and the others came up I sent Prowl to fetch Perceptor and escort him here, we’re going to need his scientific expertise.”

“Are the catacombs safe?”

“Right now they’re all we got. Once Perceptor gets here he can tell us if they’re deep enough to avoid this new weapon, until then...”

“Understood,” Duskwalker said and joined Bumblebee, Ultra Magnus, and Roadblock in the second lift. Wheeljack had mentioned he was going to help carry up the medical kits Knockout and Ratchet put together. Bumblebee gave him a nod and made space for Skystrike as he joined them.

“Now that power has been restored to the tower, shall Roadblock and I accompany you, sir?” Ultra Magnus asked in a clipped, professional, manner as the lift closed and rose.

“No,” Bumblebee told him. “I want you two, and Skystrike, if he’s willing, to remain here. We cannot leave Iacon and those who remain unguarded. We have no idea what these new enemies are capable of.”

“Who are they?” Roadblock asked.

“I don’t know. I think Ratchet does, but right now that doesn’t matter. We’ll have time for a history lesson later.”

“I will remain and assist in safeguarding your people, Commander,” Skystrike answered quietly. “All Predacons know that it was you who first dealt with Lord Predaking in a manner befitting a King and fellow Sentient. In this new battle we are as one. This is an enemy to all Cybertronians.”

“Optimus used to say something similar,” Bumblebee said as they exited the lift onto the main, lobby, floor.

“Lord Predaking believed him to be a fierce and formidable opponent, but I have learned that he was also a wise and generous leader,” Skystrike complimented and Duskwalker glanced up at him in curiosity. She wondered, again, why Skystrike had been assigned as a body guard to Redtalon. Redtalon was the fourth most powerful Predacon next to Predaking, Skylynx, and Darksteel, so why would he need a bodyguard?

“You are well informed for a soldier,” Ultra Magnus commented. Duskwalker must not be the only one curious of Skystrike’s position.

“No one can perform their duties properly unless they are well educated,” Skystrike pointed out and Ultra Magnus nodded his helm. They both followed Bumblebee, along with Roadblock, as he stood in front of the gathered refugees. They were all clamoring for answers, but quieted as Bumblebee began to speak.

“I know you all want answers. The spaceports and shipyards have all been destroyed and right now people need our help. I’m asking for volunteers to go out and bring any injured here to Iacon and to see any other refugees to safety...”

As people started organizing several rescue forces Duskwalker broke off and made her way over to Firstaid who was working on organizing the students and patients. Some of the students were already helping those with incapacitating injuries to the lifts. Others were organizing and picking up any of the medical equipment that had been shared among them. Duskwalker wondered if there was anything left for her to help with.

“You look like you’ve got everything under control,” she said as Firstaid took notice of her.

“Duskwalker, glad to see you, but you’re right. The students have been doing wonderful… I understand we may be facing a new war.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “For now, we shouldn’t speak about it. Bumblebee has everything under control and it’d be best not to cause panic.”

“Of course,” Firstaid agreed with a nod of his helm. Duskwalker turned to look as Knockout and Wheeljack brought up medical kits on a sledge and started handing them out to those who were going out with Bumblebee. “It looks like everyone is about to leave.”

“Which means we had better get to work,” Duskwalker muttered. “We don’t know when the next attack will come.” She turned and noticed a student having difficulty convincing a heavy frame-type mech that he couldn’t accompany the rescue groups. She made her way over and began flexing her, now very real, authority in earnest for the first time.

If we are going into a new war, she thought, then I’m going to have to get used to giving orders.

Once she started it felt like a never-ending stream as refugees now came in from areas affected by the bombings. Some injured were rushed down to the primary medical bay, but others she, Firstaid, and their students were able to put temporary patches on. A call-back list was established for those who would need more extensive repairs, but were not in life-threatening condition.

Duskwalker hated watching on as those given temporary treatments hobbled to the lifts and during a pause, she decided to check in on Blip who was often rushing down with the mechs needing urgent care. They had very few clamps available to them and Blip was the only one who’s hands were small enough to reach in and close medical lines manually; that she could sit on a mech’s frame while it was carried down was a huge bonus. Duskwalker was afraid of the toll it was taking on her intern though. If Duskwalker felt encrusted with blood energon then she could only imagine how Blip felt.

She found the little femme in a far corner trying to wipe energon off of her hands and frame. Blip was shaking mildly, but otherwise she seemed alright. Duskwalker knelt down next to her and picked up a cloth to help Blip with areas the minicon couldn’t reach, primarily on her back.

“Hey, Dusk,” Blip greeted in a voice laced with exhaustion. “Do you need something? I can run down to the medical bay and get anything you need.” Duskwalker shook her head with a smile. Blip was a hard worker and if she and Firstaid didn’t keep an optic on her Blip would work herself right into the floor.

“No, just wanted to make sure you were alright and not straining yourself,” Duskwalker wiped off some energon from the back of Blip’s shoulder; it was sticky and had been there for a while now, “and to see if you needed any help.”

“I,” Blip vented heavily and tried again, “I’m alright. Knockout shoved these cloths in my arms and told me I needed to stop and rest, but Dusk… they’re still going. Him, Ratchet, Firstaid, and you, I shouldn’t be sitting here having you all watching over me like a sparkling.”

“Blip we’re rotating breaks for all the students,” Duskwalker pointed out. “And it’s our job to look out for all of you. We are, all four of us, seasoned medics. We might be a little rusty at working in such numbers, but we have experience working like this.” Duskwalker wiped away energon that Blip had missed on her face plate, her thoughts grim. If this did become a war, she felt that soon Blip would accumulate more experience than any new medic should; all the students would.

“I couldn’t hold on tight enough,” Blip whispered suddenly and Duskwalker’s spark ached for the silver minicon.

“Your first?”

“Yes,” Blip stuttered. “The mech who was gone when you came in? Firstaid had been working on him, but when his spark extinguished all Firstaid did was document it, cover the body with that cloth, and moved on,” Blip looked away from Duskwalker and her voice shook, “does it get easier? You just document, cover, and go to the next patient? You don’t feel...”

“No,” Duskwalker said as she folded the cloth in her hand, keeping her voice soft. “It’s never easy to lose a patient. You always question yourself, especially after the first few. You ask yourself ‘if I had worked faster’ or ‘if I had done more would they have lived?’”

“So, it never gets easier,” Blip said. “How do you do it?”

“You grow,” Duskwalker answered clearly and raised her voice a little for the students who she’d noticed were listening. “You learn and you become more experienced. You trust your fellow medics to help you, to teach you, and eventually you realize, maybe even accept to some degree, that you are not Primus. You can’t save everyone and even if you doubt yourself there’s someone else who needs your help. With time you learn to remember the lives you’ve saved, to cherish that, and you mourn the ones you’ve lost. It doesn’t get easier, but you do learn how to cope.”

“Well said, Duskwalker,” commented Ratchet quietly over the medic’s private channel. “I stand by what I said: you would make an excellent teacher.”

“I concur,” Knockout agreed. Duskwalker glanced over to Firstaid and saw the mech nodding his head. She hadn’t realized that they had all been listening. Warmth grew in her spark and she brought her gaze back to Blip who was looking up at her with a painful hope.

“Hey! Tirerack what are you doing?” someone yelled surprising Duskwalker. She turned and caught sight of a mech walking, practically stumbling, towards the far wall. “Tirerack come back. The medic needs to look at you!” The speaker got up from where he’d been sitting and ran after his friend, one of the medical students right on his heels. The two caught up with the mech who stood next to the wall. The mech who’d yelled out Tirerack’s name placed a hand on his shoulder. Duskwalker got up to follow after them, ready to intervene, but was thrown down as Tirerack detonated and the wall he stood against exploded in fire and rubble.

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

Duskwalker